


Fairy Tale

by Shalebridge_Cradle



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: F/F, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-03-09 07:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shalebridge_Cradle/pseuds/Shalebridge_Cradle
Summary: Veronica Sawyer comes back.





	1. Deal with the Devil

It’s not fun. It’s never fun at these things.

Heather Chandler knows this, but she goes anyway.

It’s important she does, she tells herself, staring blankly into the fire someone’s started in one of the fraternity’s trashcans. After considering her next move, she takes a cigarette out of her purse and lights it on the flickering tongues of flame. There’s a metaphor in there she’s too physically drained to articulate. Instead, she slides down the wall onto the stone beneath her, as cold and rough as she is.

Sometimes, she needs the reminder that’s what she’s supposed to be.

She needs the reminder that there’s a purpose to her presence at Remington parties. It proves that her influence goes much farther than the concrete walls of Westerburg. It proves that she’s better, that she’s bigger than them and that backwater school. That there’s a reason she’s on top.

There’s a reason that she lets David and all his Neanderthal frat buddies talk to her, give her compliments they both know are empty words, put their hands all over her and –

 _There’s someone at the entrance of the alleyway_.

Heather holds in a shriek – _Heather Chandler does not get surprised_ – As the figure staggers down and collapses next to her.

Their eyes meet. The stranger’s eyes are brown, and so very, unbelievably tired. They speak of years and burdens that she's far too young to have.

“I’d wager this isn’t a proud moment for either of us,” she says, giving a smile so bitter Heather can taste it, “more me than you, true, but still.”

All Heather can bring herself to say is “Red is _so_ not your color.”

The best way she can describe this person, she decides, is ‘time traveler in a recent car accident’. The billowy shirt and silken britches would’ve been high fashion for a servant in the 1700s, if not for all the tears in it, the blood from the cuts crisscrossing over the stranger’s arms and face staining silver fabric a rusty, mottled crimson.

The subject of scrunity frowns, looking at her ripped sleeves like an art critic examines a painting. Then she shakes her head.

“Now, see, I would have thought you’d be working for Him, that _this_ ,” she gestures to the alleyway, the trashcan fire, “is just a trap. You’re a chrome-plated queen, not an inch of subtlety ‘bout you. Just like Him. But, from that quip, I’d say you’re not in cahoots. You’re real.”

Heather takes a long drag from her cigarette, hoping the smoke will hide her confusion. God, talking to this girl is like riding a rollercoaster. Dizzying, twisting and turning, swerving from one nonsense statement to another possible compliment. Of course Heather’s real. Whenever she walks into a room, everyone stops to stare. When she locks eyes with someone, they’re enthralled. When she speaks, people trip over themselves to grant her wish. How could she do _any_ of it if she wasn’t _real_?

 _Why_ is she letting a comment by some Revolution-era lunatic get to her like this? She’s Heather Chandler, better than this. Better than _her_.

“I’m the genuine article, Pageboy. Twenty-four carat solid. Now, unless we have business, you can fuck off back to Fairyland for all I care.”

That last comment (and it’s a piss-weak insult, more of a verbal love tap than a jab) looks like it touched a nerve. The stranger gets this awful, far-away look in her eyes.

“Fine,” her voice is faint, lilting, like she’s reading a storybook, “As you wish. Know this – someone pursues me like hounds after a fox, with no higher purpose than possession, the prize. I seek shelter from the storm, and will reimburse in service.”

“You seem real sure they’ll give up on finding you.”

The stranger shrugs. “His is a fickle sort. He is unending, thus unchanging, and He’ll lose interest in His plaything as He has a hundred times before.”

Chandler looks her up and down, and the stranger shifts uncomfortably under her piercing gaze. No matter how much she dances around the topic like rising ash dances around a fire (Christ, now _she’s_ doing it too), what this weirdo is getting at is that she needs Heather’s help. With escaping God, apparently, if that whole ‘unending’ thing isn’t just figurative. That’s something she can work with, and the challenge is intriguing.

“Well, you’re not a complete lost cause. You got a name?”

“Veronica-” she cuts herself off, and panic briefly washes over her face. Heather chooses to ignore it.

“Well, _Veronica_. If you want me to help you, the first step is to stop talking like you’re in an 18 th century romance novel. Cut down on the flowery bullshit, and I might be able to get what you want. _Capiche_?”

“…Sorry,” Veronica replies sheepishly, “Force of habit.”

Heather nods, satisfied she has the upper hand. “My car’s nearby. We’ll go around the back. I’m done here, anyway.”

If Veronica notes any sourness in her tone, she says nothing of it.

 

-

 

The car ride home is uneventful. Clearly, Veronica’s _not_ from the 1700s, because she seems to know what cars are. From Chandler’s stolen glances through the rear-view mirror, she spends most of her time fiddling around in her pockets or readjusting the rug Heather put over the back seat (a necessary sacrifice if she doesn’t want blood everywhere).

Veronica spends most of the journey up to Heather’s room in uncomfortable. Chandler thinks it must be awe – she’s had comments about the size of the house before, and she imagines the same would hold true for someone who doesn’t have one.

“Wait here,” Heather commands, “I’ll get you all the bandages in this house, and hope that’s enough.”

Veronica shakes her head. “No need. I closed up the easy ones in the car. Gimme a sec, I’ll finish it off.” She reaches into her pocket.

“What, you got a sewing kit in there?”

Veronica shakes her head again, and pulls out a pen. It’s an old-timey thing, too – a split metal nib, a barrel of solid wood. The end seems to have been broken off at some point, likely through whatever caused all the rips in fabric and flesh to begin with.

“The arms are the hardest,” she tells Heather, “some of the cuts are pretty wide, and since I need a hand to hold the pen, it won’t work as well.”

“You want me to hold them shut.” Heather says flatly.

“If you could. You don’t have to look at 'em if you get squeamish about that sort of thing.”

Heather does indeed balk at the sight of blood, but Veronica is the last person who needs to know that. “Ugh, _please_. I’m no wimp. Show me where to put my hands.”

Veronica does so, directing Heather to a large cut on her left arm. Heather gingerly pinches the skin around it, and locks eyes with Veronica.

“Sure you don’t need rubbing alcohol, or anything?” she asks.

“Nope. This’ll be just fine.”

Veronica brandishes her pen, and Heather’s eyes widen when she sees the end is tipped with red.

“What-”

Veronica flicks the pen along the wound, drawing horizontal lines over damaged skin. It knits together with each new stroke, like a zipper, until the injury has completely disappeared. No scars, no nothing.

All Heather can feel is a freezing cold in her stomach as Veronica points to another spot on her upper arm, and Heather moves without thinking. It’s shock, she thinks as Veronica repeats the process, totally justified shock. Of course she knew something was off about this chick from the moment she set eyes on her, what with the outfit and the outdated slang, but this is… something else.

“It’s not the pen, if you’re wondering,” Veronica says matter-of-factly as she switches hands to reach a cut on her right forearm, “it isn’t magic. It just looks pretty. Okay, I’m done.”

Heather draws back, all her energy directed into her hands to keep them from shaking.

“You owe me.”

“I know, I didn’t forget,” Veronica replies. She looks around the room. “Can I sit?”

“I don’t know, can you?” Heather mutters to herself, before pointing to the stool in front of her vanity. “Quick question, do I have to sign this contract in blood? ‘Cause I’m not using your pen.”

“What? No! No, it’s a verbal agreement. I’m no Mephistopheles.”

“What are you, then? I figure a whole bunch of doctors would _love_ to stitch people up by drawing on them.”

“I…” Veronica frowns. “I was human at one point. I dunno if that’s still the case, but I definitely have a soul.”

Heather crosses her arms, unconvinced. Hell, she’s unconvinced that any of this is happening. Maybe something got slipped into her drink (it was probably Chet, it’s always fucking Chet) and she’s not seeing things as they are. Maybe she’s passed out in that alleyway, and this is all a fanciful dream – that she’s safe, at home.

“What exactly can you offer me?”

“I make things. That was my job before, to make things. I can’t do anything made of iron, or anything that’s alive, but the rest is fair game.”

“And these things are real? You’re not just gonna sketch them and give me the picture?”

Veronica looks confused, almost offended. “Then it’s a drawing of the thing. That’s different. I’m not playing you here - three things, anything I can smith for you, in exchange for you keeping me safe.”

Heather smiles sardonically. Three wishes, like in the stories – the third and final one to undo the damage of the first two. What would stop Veronica from twisting them to her own ends?

“Plus one,” Chandler offers, “just to show me you can put your money where your mouth is. Then it’s a deal.”

 Veronica considers this for a moment, then nods slightly.

“Well, is that it? Is that all I have to do?”

“Not just yet. I have to think of how to word this,” Veronica says slowly. Then, her eyes widen. “Your name. I never asked your name.”

“Heather.” Veronica didn’t give her last name, so she sees no reason to give hers.

“Huh. Okay.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” Veronica says quickly, “it’s just… I picked you as more of a Rose than a Heather. Doesn’t matter. Let's get the important stuff outta the way.”

Heather stands there stiffly, hands gripping tightly to her upper arms. She doesn’t know what exactly ‘the important stuff’ entails, or whether or not it’ll be painful. For every second Veronica considers her words, Chandler considers throwing her out the window and being done with this weirdness.

She doesn’t. It may have been a mistake.

Veronica’s storybook voice makes a return. “I swear upon my name that I will provide Heather with three favors, plus one of my choosing, that I am able to supply. In exchange, Heather will shield me from those who mean me harm to the best of her ability, so long as my work is not done.” Veronica meets Heather’s steely gaze. “Do you agree to these terms?”

“I do.”

When those two words leave Heather’s mouth, time slows. Her heart flutters in her chest, and she feels lightheaded, lighthearted, like she weighs nothing at all.

Then, Heather _sees_.

Sees the script, twisted, curling around Veronica’s form like ivy, black and red and gold staining grey-brown skin. Sees the blotted eyes, misshapen pupils, two drops of ink fallen from on high.

Speaking of ink…

 _Of course,_ Heather’s brain tells her. _That’s how she knew you weren’t hunting her down, that you were human. Because you saw red, red blood, when all_ she _saw was black._

That unreal second ticks over to the next, and everything returns to how it was.

“…You alright?” Veronica asks (and her eyes are brown, her skin is clear, had Heather seen anything at all?), “You looked _supremely_ spooked there for a moment.”

“I’m fine,” is the automatic response. It’s a low hiss, like Chandler’s a cornered animal trying to warn away a threat.

Veronica’s brows knit, and Heather wonders what sort of spell she’s cast to make her usual snapping so transparent. Worse, there’s the possibility that Veronica hasn’t done anything at all, and the fault lies with her.

But Heather Chandler isn’t a failure.

“Black isn’t your color, either.” She huffs. Veronica looks down at her tattered shirt, and swallows. A confirmation that Heather is right.

“Well, I did warn you. Don’t know if I’m human anymore.” Veronica sort of… closes in on herself as she says it. Heather briefly feels something she can’t name clutching in her chest, and, as with most unpleasant sensations, she ignores them. “But, hey, I gotta focus on the positives. I’m out of the woods, and He’s not getting through that gate.”

Heather hums non-committally. She doesn’t really think ‘out of the woods’ is the right metaphor for it. ‘Out of the frying pan and into the fire’ is way more fitting. Veronica, pretty thing that she is, isn’t getting out unscathed from this deal. Not when she’s seen Heather at her worst.

She can’t be weak. No-one can know.

And she certainly doesn’t need a human notepad and a Faustian pact to keep people wrapped around her little finger. She is, after all, Heather Chandler.

She has her ways, and she’ll use all of them to keep this ball in her court.


	2. The Swindler

It all comes back to Heather, slowly but surely.

The throbbing headache. The feel of silk sheets. The faint glow of the digital clock on her bedside table.

10:37.

 _Thank fuck_ , are her first coherent thoughts of the day. There’d be no visit to the old folks’ home this morning – the driver her father hired always showed up at 9AM sharp, honked his horn twice, and took off after five minutes. He showed just as much interest in doing his job as Chandler showed in letting him do it, and it worked out perfectly for both of them.

Oh, yeah.

She has someone else to deal with today, doesn’t she?

Groaning, Heather rolls out of bed to get herself ready. Doesn’t matter if it’s a weird book-person she’s going to talk to, it simply wouldn’t do for her to be caught with smudged mascara.

 

Down the hall, second door on the right. That’s what she told Veronica last night, that’s where she will be if she has any sense.

Yet, as Heather listens, she hears no sound from the other side of the barely-open door. There’s no-one on the bed, either (though some of the sheets are missing) – Heather briefly wonders if Veronica’s skipped town. Would be easy for her, she muses. Open a window, think any happy little thought, and back to Neverland she goes.

Easy, and disappointing for everyone.

Heather opens the door completely.

Huddled in a corner, wearing a comforter over her shoulders like a cloak, there she is. Veronica, looking far more serene in sleep than Heather could ever hope to imagine.

“There’s a perfectly good bed right there, y’know.”

Veronica starts awake, with a series of strangled ‘ahs’ and ‘ums’.

“It… the wall helps,” she babbles, “it’s stable, and, uh, strong, and no-one can sneak up on me this way.”

Heather raises an eyebrow. Veronica’s still worried about this mysterious figure come to take her back to Wherever The Fuck, even after saying the wrought iron gate at the edge of the property is enough to keep her secure. If she’s honest with herself, Heather’s a little offended with this lack of change. It’s like an attack on her hospitality, even if it is barely existent.

Veronica seems to read Heather’s thoughts. “It’s not logical, I know, it’s just… it’s always in the back of my mind, coiled tight. Waiting. Like a snake. Beds, chairs, anything that looks comfy and safe could be a lure. A bear trap in a pile of leaves. You can’t… you can’t trust.”

Heather gets that part, at least.

“You can trust _me_ , though,” she says, sitting down on the bed as if to prove her point, “I made that promise to you. Verbal contract. Whatever. Since you’ve done fuck all on that front, that’s still in place.”

“Yeah, I didn’t make any sort of oath with your house. I made it with you. And anyone else you might know called Heather, though you seem like a one-of-a-kind sort of gal.”

Heather winces.

Veronica stands slowly. The nightgown Heather loaned her is a little too short, and it damages the looming intimidation Heather thinks Veronica’s going for.

“Who else?”

“Heather McNamara, and Heather Duke,” Heather says evenly (she’s probably fucked up, not that she’ll admit it), “I didn’t think the last name was important. It’s all about intent, isn’t it?”

Veronica chuckles darkly. “Oh, no. No, you’ve just tripled my workload. It is _all_ about the wording. The thing that took me, He is an expert on finding loopholes or using the right phrasing to get the best deal. All of His kind are, really.”

The thing that took her. Is this a Beauty and the Beast situation? Was she traded for a rose? “Well, he’s not around to enforce it.”

“It’s not Him, it’s a force! You think He'd be willing to close the cuts I got running away from Him?!”

“No, I _don’t_ _know_ because you won’t explain it to me! You won’t explain anything, you won’t even tell me your full name. Why should I give mine?”

Veronica goes on a split-second face journey.

“…Sawyer.”

“What?”

“You said I can trust you. Prove it. My name is Veronica Sawyer.” When Heather says nothing in response, the tension in her jaw, her shoulders, her clenched fists, seems to vanish. “…You didn’t call Him.”

“No shit. He sounds like an asshole, I don’t want him in my house.”

There’s a moment of silence as Veronica searches Heather’s face for some sign of trickery. Even if Heather was as easy to read as Veronica is (Chandler silently congratulates herself on the witticism and tucks it in the back of her mind for later use), there’s nothing to hide. Not when Heather doesn’t even know what this dude is, or if he’s real. Besides, names don’t mean anything on their own. It’s the reputation behind them that gives them power.

The fragile smile forming on Veronica’s face is shattered by the thud of footsteps coming up the stairs.

“That’s them,” Chandler announced, “Heather and Heather. We’re meant to go to the mall today.”

Veronica tenses again. “You _know_ it’s them?”

“Of course I do. They can be bitches, both of them, but they're harmless. If they’re really Russian spies or whatever, they’re dead to me _and_ to the world. Like there’s a difference.”

“Wait, the Cold War’s _still_ going on-?”

They’re rudely interrupted by the ever-nosy Heather Duke. Heather McNamara is trailing behind her, looking like she’s seen the face of God in Veronica’s Rorschach Test eyes.

“Who’s this?” Duke smirks, ambition bleeding into her voice. Chandler knows she’s just waiting for an opportunity stab her in the back. _As. If._ Heather isn’t stupid, and she hates that Duke thinks that 1) Chandler’s capable of being taken down by someone as empty and worthless as her, and 2) if Duke pulled the plug on their arrangement, she wouldn’t end up right next to her hated queen in the underworld that is unpopularity.

Heather considered just saying ‘Veronica’, but she was trying to get this chick to like her. It was a strange thing, having to work for someone’s adoration. She's not sure how she feels about it.

“I met her at the party last night. The _Remington_ party,” Heather added, knowing she could dangle that above Duke’s head, “Her date turned out to be a grade-A sleazeball, so I said I’d let her sleep over.”

After a moment’s contemplation, Veronica holds out her hand for Duke to shake. “Wynne Smith.”

Duke doesn’t take it, instead eyeing her like she's just offered her a dead rat. As Veronica curls her fingers into her palm like a wilting flower, McNamara decides to grow a backbone. She takes Veronica’s hand in both of her own, locking it in place like the traps that Veronica fears.

Then, she starts running her thumb along Veronica’s forearm. The route she takes makes it clear to Heather that she’s following the strings of scripture just out of sight.

It isn’t a good indicator whether she’s gone nuts or not. Not with McNamara. Now the alarms in Chandler's head are going off.

“Heather,” she snaps, an icy tone to match her eyes, “We’ve talked about this.”

McNamara pulls away like she’s been electrocuted. “Sorry, Heather.”

“Whatever. Go get in the car. I’m on my way.” Heather shares a significant look with a shaken Veronica. “That outfit you wore last night was a disaster. I’ll see what I can do about fixing that.”

“It’s definitely not something I plan to wear again,” Veronica concedes.

(Chandler had pored over the wrecked outfit before throwing it in the trash. For all the details in the fabric, all the rips and tears, there were no seams, no stitching to be found. All one piece, like it was grown rather than made.)

As Chandler locks the front door (she normally doesn't bother, but she made a promise), Duke looks up to the third story, suspicion all over her face.

“Why are you doing this for her?”

“You weren’t there to see that thing. It’s an act of charity to get her something decent,” Chandler tells her, “besides, the more I do for her, the more she owes me. I’m sure you’re familiar with that concept.”

Duke scowls in response, but says nothing as she opens the driver's side door.

 

-

 

Heather dumps the shopping bag on the bed Veronica refuses to use, even now that she’s awake. The dubious recipient of fashion jumps slightly, distracted up until now by what looks like Chandler’s unfinished vocab homework.

“I’m just looking through it,” Veronica says, defensively. Heather smiles down at her.

“I’m perfectly happy for you to do my homework for me. Saves me paying some geek who takes it as a sign I like him.” She jerks her thumb at McNamara, hiding behind Duke in the doorway. “Heather paid for the clothes, as an apology for getting all up in your space earlier.”

“It’s just…” McNamara gestures at Veronica with open hands, like a game show host presenting a prize.

“I get it. I dunno _why_ , but I get it.”

“Where have I seen you before?” Duke’s tone is more fitting for police questioning than small talk, “You go to Westerburg? What class are you in?”

Veronica’s eyes flash with recognition, and a healthy dose of fear. “Westerburg?”

“Back off, Heather!”

Duke cowers. “Sorry, Heather.”

“She could tell us a little about herself,” McNamara mumbled. Chandler is about to turn on her, too, when Veronica raises a hand.

“I… I’m a storyteller. Good at words. Got an imagination.” Duke scoffs at the notion, but Chandler’s glare puts a stop to any scorn. “Would you like to hear one?”

McNamara tilts her head slightly. “Is it a good one? One I’ve heard before?”

“I sincerely doubt anyone would have told you this.”

McNamara frowns, before taking a seat on the bed.

“Okay.”

 

-

 

The story is this –

The Prince of Summer Storms, with hair of whipping wind and teeth like lightning, is a collector of power. Not as in armies, or in political clout, though there's no shortage of either. He acquires examples of the different forms of influence like one might pin beetles and butterflies for display. While the classic examples of sheer destructive force are present, tin soldiers, giants and living flame, He finds himself fascinated by what mere mortals find to be strong – things like money, royal bloodlines, and entertainment. He finds and creates creatures that He believes champion these ideas. Things like a quadrupedal monster made of gold and gems, luring in the greedy with its shining carapace before devouring them whole. A mockery of a king, twisted and deformed behind his finery, yet exuding an aura of authority that allows him to order others around. These things He shapes, He admires, He shows off to His rivals, and He abandons once He tires of them.

He does attempt to research, though. When the Prince found Himself enamored with the concept of the written word, He ventured outside His holdings in search of someone who might understand. He found His font of knowledge in the form of a young woman, resting on a rock and writing in a small book.

“Tell me,” He commanded, “What gives print its strength?”

The young woman thought for a moment. “It depends on how it’s presented. It can conjure up images in your mind. It can make you feel joy or anger or sadness. In forms or warrants, it makes a person act in a certain way.”

Pleased with the answer, the Prince decided He would make this girl the personification of the concept, as He had done with others before. He spirited her away to His realm, and, as all things in His princedom did, her form changed to fit His desires. Skin of parchment. Blood of ink.

That wasn’t the end of it, of course. The Prince wanted to experience these wonders the young woman spoke of. He demanded she write, that she show Him how words make objects, engender emotion, move people like puppets to meet its demands. When He was inevitably disappointed, He compelled her to do it again, and again, until He was satisfied.

After what seemed like years, and however many gallons of blood, the girl managed to do it. When she did, He made sure to make use of it.

His infatuation went on much longer than His previous fleeting favorites. After all, words could be so very versatile, especially given His passions. After a gala held by another member of the Gentry, the Prince returned to His home, tired and embittered by a lack of conflict between His many rivals. To cheer Himself, He ordered His Wordsmith to compose a work of happiness, pure contentment. She obeyed, and put unimaginable care and effort into the piece. She used all that she had been forced to learn to make it utterly perfect. She had a plan, after all, and its success hinged on a flawless choice of words.

She presented it to her liege, and upon reading it, the Prince slipped into a state of complete euphoria, a haze of immaculate ecstasy.

In that moment, and she was sure to make it last, the Wordsmith made her escape.

 

-

 

“Good enough?”  

McNamara nods slowly, eyes unfocused. Heather’s a little worried that the distracted expression might mean that she didn’t understand a word of it. Veronica’s gaze is on Chandler when she says that, however, and Heather realizes this may be in reference to her earlier gripe.

“Is that payment for the outfit?” Duke asks.

“That?” Veronica shakes her head. “Just a favor.”

The gears turn in Heather’s head, and it clicks. Her lip curls upwards.

 _One of three_.

"Well played," she murmurs, and Veronica gives a sly smile.


	3. Heather Number One

“Myriad,” Veronica pauses for half a second, leaning on the side of Heather’s desk, “numerous. Or, something with many different aspects. Think of it like facets on a diamond – loads of ‘em, all pointing in different directions, still part of a whole thing.” 

“Okay. So, like, ‘you have myriad problems’.” 

Veronica sighs. “Grammar’s off, but yeah. That works.”

Heather smirks as she taps her pen against her chin. She wasn’t going to let Veronica do it herself, not after last night, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help. English was second period, though, and Ms. Milford had a bad habit of springing surprise tests on her apathetic students, especially on Mondays.

“Last one,” Heather tells her, “superfluous.”

“Unnecessary. Stuff you don’t need.” Veronica holds up a finger. “I’m gonna preempt you on this one – ‘I use a superfluous amount of words’. You doing this ‘cause of that con?”

“No.”

If Chandler’s honest, it sort of is. Sure, she’s impressed with how Veronica went about it, making it seem like McNamara got the most out of the arrangement, but the storytelling made her realize how easily she could be tricked out of her own favors. Hell, how does she know she hasn’t?! Chandler had said she’d be fine with Veronica doing her homework, so clearly she has to do it herself to keep that same thing from happening. Damn crook, forcing her to slave away over something she’s meant to do in the first place.

Heather folds up the worksheet and slips it into her bag, getting ready to leave. “I’m off. You can start working on my sample while I’m gone. If housekeeping shows up, just hide in the closet. They never clean in there.”

“Yeah… fine. You’re at Westerburg High, huh?”

“You know it.”

“I do.”

Veronica raps her fingers on the desk as Chandler heads for the door. Just as she’s about to slip away, Veronica holds up her finger again.

“Heather, what year is it?”

“Don’t you know? 1989. Reagan’s out, Bush is in.”

Veronica’s face goes slate-blank, like she’s a computer that just rebooted. “Right. Okay. I knew that. That’s fine. Thanks.”

Chandler frowns, but she doesn't have the time to call out the obvious lie. As she closes the door, she hears a muted thud against the wall, accompanied by a groan.

 

-

 

The rats of Westerburg descend on her as soon as they get the chance.

Well, ‘rats’ is a strong term. The real vermin - the geeks, the burnouts and Martha Dumptruck - they can’t hope to get close enough to the Heathers to strike up a conversation. Maybe ‘crows’ is more accurate. Respected, a little smarter, but still scavengers and parasites.

“I love your outfit, Heather.”

“Thanks. You can’t afford it.”

( _Don’t try to take what’s mine_.)

“Can I carry your books to class, Heather?”

“I can do it myself. I don’t need your help.”

( _I am not weak_.)

“How was the party, Heather?”

“It was very…”

( _Loud. Claustrophobic. The smell of smoke and sweat, and the dread of someone stronger than you over your shoulder. Waiting for you to drop your guard. I hated it._ )

But if she says that, they’ll think she’s not up to the task. She’ll have to do something bigger and better to keep her position.

So, she finishes the sentence on ‘very’ and stalks off. Duke and McNamara follow.

Nobody stops her. Nobody questions her.

“I can see that catching on,” Duke says, “ _very_. When something defies words.” McNamara offers a simpering smile in support.

“Of course it will. _I_ said it. Now, hurry up. I’ll be getting detention if I’m late to class again, and if your fat ass slows me down I’m taking you with me.”

 

It’s a normal start to the day. Biology with Kurt and Ram first up (and that’s not a euphemism, thank Christ), a pop quiz in English (which Heather’s sure she’s aced), Gym (skipped) and Study Hall.

Half of the hour is spent trying to think of a question for the lunchtime poll, while Duke chatters on about the Yearbook and how Dennis is breathing down her neck for something to put in the school newspaper. There are brief allusions to ‘The Storyteller’, but Duke’s too cowardly to be upfront about Veronica. It might be that the idea Chandler might actually help someone in need is foreign to her.

Ungrateful. Everything Heather does is for them as well. The bitch doesn’t know just how generous she is.

Wait.

“I’ve thought of a question,” Chandler announces.

“Yeah?”

 

-

 

“So, you find this lamp at a garage sale or whatever, and when you try to clean it, a genie comes out and says they’ll grant you a wish, anything you want. In exchange, you have to give the genie something very important to you. What do you wish for, and what do you give away?”

Chandler stands with her clipboard at the ready as Kurt processes the question, lips parted in concentration.

“Does it have to be, like, a real thing that I give 'em?” He asks.

“Are you proposing to trick the all-powerful genie?”

“Is the genie hot? Like the one on that old sitcom?” Ram interjects.

It takes all of Heather’s energy to keep from rolling her eyes so hard they pop out of her skull. “Sure.”

“Okay.” Kurt sounds almost serious. “I would wish for the genie… to sit on my face… and ride me like Secretariat in the Kentucky Derby.”

“Hell yeah, dude! Same! She’ll be the meat in the sandwich, me on one end, you on the other!”

“Punch it in!”

Heather screams internally. “And what important thing are you giving her?”

“I already gave it,” Ram replies, scrunching up his face.

Chandler smiles blandly in response, before moving onto the next table. God, she hopes they’d get their dicks cut off one of these days. Then they’ll have to use their brains instead.

There aren’t a whole lot of interesting answers from the small few who deserve the honor of answering. Courtney refuses to take the deal, since the genie might be Satan in disguise. Peter Dawson wishes for financial security instead of ending world hunger, and Alison the cheerleader would surrender her virginity for a chance to meet Madonna. Not to meet her. A _chance_ to meet her.

 

Chandler tries to toss the clipboard onto the table as she flops down in her seat. She misses, and it lands squarely on Duke’s lunch tray. The girl in green gives Heather a hurt look.

“What? Not like it’s giving you any nutritional value.” Chandler quips.

McNamara’s eyebrows knit at the sight of Duke’s scowl. “How’d the polling go?”

“Ugh. Gag me with a spoon, the people here don’t have an atom of imagination in their tiny brains. You can ask for anything in the world, anything at all, and they all go with money, sex or fame.”

“Of course you wouldn’t get that – not when you have all three,” Duke mutters.

She’s pretty sure that Duke meant it as an insult, but Chandler hums in satisfaction as her eyes scan the student body. Though most of her royal subjects actively avert their eyes, like Chandler will smite them for daring to look at her godly form without permission, she meets the gaze of a few. She grins when a kid with coke-bottle glasses shoots milk out of his nose in surprise, and she gives a wink at a member of the basketball team, but there’s a face in that crowd she doesn’t recognize.

The dark-haired boy stares right back at her, a smug smile on his face and nothing behind his eyes.

McNamara answers the unspoken question. “That’s Jason Dean. He’s new, I have a couple of classes with him. Didn’t think he was your type.”

“He isn’t,” Heather hisses, like she’s afraid he’ll hear, “Maybe if he didn’t buy his clothes at Goodwill and washed his hair every once in a while.”

“ _So_ true,” McNamara sniggers.

The sound of that squeaky giggle is like a dog whistle to Kurt Kelly. Chandler sees him whip his head around out of the corner of her eye. He says something to Ram, and the two of them saunter over to the far corner table.

“Look’s like your boyfriend’s jealous,” Duke says to McNamara, “and _his_ boyfriend’s there to back him up.”

“They won’t hurt him too bad. I’m sure.”

“Well, he’s gotta learn the way of the world somehow,” Chandler sighs, like the whole thing is unavoidable.

“For sure. Look at that trenchcoat – he’s trying _way_ too hard with that bad boy look.”

“Can’t afford a leather jacket, obviously.”

“Oh, he’s gonna fight ‘em. _This_ should be good.”

“Wait, what’s he doing-?”

 

_Click_.

BANG. BANG.

 

-

 

Veronica almost falls out of her chair when Heather slams the bedroom door open. It’s justified, admittedly – she’s got the nonsense tattoos and the ink-blot eyes turned on again. She’s not entirely sure how Veronica switches between the two, but from what she can gather, Veronica’s just as clueless as she is.

“You’re home earlier than I thought,” says Veronica, her body and her voice still shaking, “do they only do half-days now?”

“I wish. No, some kid pulled a gun in the caf, so we all got sent home while they dealt with him.”

“…Dang. You alright?”

“Obviously,” Heather replies (and she does a spectacular job at hiding the defensiveness in her tone), “that psycho loaded blanks. The only casualties were two pairs of pants.”

“That’s still messed up.”

Heather silently agrees as she looks over the desk, now Veronica’s workspace. The broken pen has made a return, and Heather makes a mental note to chastise her about using a shot glass as an inkwell, even if it _is_ one that’s been in back of the cupboard since they first moved here. The paper she’s writing on, some page ripped out of one of Chandler’s many unused notebooks, is stained dark on both sides, lines upon lines of tiny script bleeding through the thin sheet.

Then, there’s the dagger, sitting on the far corner.

Veronica makes a dismissive gesture in its direction. “Ignore that. It’s an early draft. Probably useless.”

Heather frowns as she picks the knife up. The first thing that comes to mind is a toy sword – the shape’s simple, symmetrical, a wide blade with a small grip. The thing is that it seems to be made of the right materials, the steel blending seamlessly into wood. A gradient.

Heather gives it an experimental tap against the side of the desk, and there’s a metallic ‘clunk’ as the blade bends ninety degrees back.

“See?” Veronica says, unbothered, as Heather tries to fix the damage, “Doesn’t act like it should. I’m working on a better one, so don’t call me out just yet.”

“Why a knife?”

“You never know.” There’s a pause. “I wasn’t expecting you back yet. I might be a little longer, you can relax.”

Heather recognizes what that means. A polite way of saying _stop hanging over me_. Mildly insulted that Veronica couldn’t just come out and say it ( _she doesn’t need anyone to spare her feelings_ ), she sidles over to the phone on the bedside table and starts dialing McNamara’s number.

 

As expected, McNamara is far more concerned with Courtney’s new sweater than the almost-murder of her boyfriend. Still, the distraction is just what the doctor ordered, especially when Veronica keeps muttering to herself, punctuated by the occasional thump of head-on-desk. Talking to Heather McNamara is like a hike in a national park – long, meandering, and with the possibility you end up somewhere stunning with no idea how you got there.

Of course, you never need to walk back with a conversation. They say their goodbyes after what feels like hours (they somehow managed to get from sweaters to alternate realities), and Chandler’s attention returns to her other servant. The incessant scribbling has come to an end, and Heather can hear the flutter of paper as Veronica turns the sheet over.

“You almost done?” Heather asks.

“You can’t rush these things,” Veronica chides. She flips the paper over again. “But, yes. I think I am.”

Curious, Heather moves closer with long, low steps, like a cat sneaking up on a mouse. In retrospect, probably not the best thing to do with someone as paranoid as Veronica. She gives a flinching little jump when Heather gets close enough, presumably at the sensation of someone breathing down her neck.

“You ready?” Veronica queries, a small grin lighting up her face. Not that Heather’d admit it, but it’s nice to see her smiling honestly, even if there is that hint of anxiety bubbling below the surface.

“Born ready.”

She watches, spellbound, as Veronica folds, creases the edges of the paper, one over the top of the other. Origami. Just as she’s wondering when Veronica’s going to do something more, the Wordsmith gives a flick of her wrist. The paper vanishes and a wicked-looking blade takes its place.

“Hopefully this one won’t bend.” Veronica sounds almost apologetic for doing _fucking magic_ , making something out of nothing right before Heather’s eyes. To check, Chandler takes the knife with the utmost care (understandable, she thinks, given the last one). It’s light, smooth, the tip curved like a thorn, the faintest etchings of what looks like brambles coiling around the grip.

“Damn,” Chandler breathes. It’s the only word that comes to mind.

“You like it?”

Heather laughs. Not the laugh she uses with the Heathers, airy and practiced, or the coy little giggle she uses around boys. It’s _real_ , and Chandler didn’t realize how much she’s missed that feeling until now.

“You kidding?” she cackles, “This is _perfect_! Fuckin’ Jesse James can’t get me now!”

She can feel her grin falter at the thought of him. The Cafeteria Incident was certainly a shock to the system – Heather knows all her influence is woven into the social fabric of Westerburg, and anyone who can tear through it like it isn’t there is a danger.

But Veronica’s given her more than a blade. She’s given her a different way to fight. If the school system fails her once again and Jason Dean isn’t thrown out on his ass, she can keep him at bay with more than just the people she can talk into taking the bullet.

Heather’s attention returns to the provider of this power, watching her with apprehension.

“Don’t go getting into a knife fight, or anything. That could turn out badly for both of us,” Veronica says haltingly.

“Of course not. Self-defense only,” Heather coos, and she hopes the absence of ‘I promise’ goes unnoticed. “Thanks. This is just what I need.”

Veronica’s lips part slightly, just for a moment, before she looks away.

“’S been a long time since someone was grateful,” she mumbles.

“And I’m not grateful very often. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Apparently emboldened by Heather’s approval, Veronica gives a smirk as she leans back on the chair. “Is that so? Y’know, I can’t say I know much about you at all. For all your frustration about not knowing my handle, you haven’t told me yours.”

“Handle?”

“Name,” Veronica clarifies. “I’m not _that_ far in the future, am I? Now, I know a few things. Your first name’s Heather, your father’s clearly Ebenezer Scrooge, and you go to Westerburg. What else?”

“…If I tell you, you swear not to use it against me?” asks Heather, her voice low.

“Upon my name.”

_At least it wasn’t ‘upon my honor’_ , Chandler thinks to herself, _that’s almost certainly a trap_. But, hey, after the dumpster fire that was today, she could do with the ego boost.

“I have many names,” she hums, “There’s Heather Number One, The Almighty, Red Heather, You Goddamn Bitch, but I’d say most know me as Heather Chandler.”


	4. Doubt Truth to be a Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Period-Typical and Internalized Homophobia.

School resumes, as inevitable as the changing seasons. The principal advertises counseling for any students who need it, and Ms. Fleming offers ‘a friendly ear’. Of course, Heather scoffs at both notions. By her influence, both Phlegm and Mr. Hyde the guidance counselor remain as lonely as always.

Jason Dean is notably absent, but Chandler quickly finds out through the grapevine that it’s not because he’s in juvie. He’s only been suspended for a few weeks.

“Figures,” she says to Heather Duke, “the system’s too soft on them.”

“We’re the perfect example of that, aren’t we?” comes the sullen reply.

“Did you forget to put your brain back in your skull this morning? Skipping class is one thing, Heather, bringing a deadly weapon to school is barely in the same ball park.”

(The blade hidden in the bottom of her purse seems to weigh more with that statement. He started it, she rationalizes.)

Duke flinches. “Sorry, Heather.”

Chandler nods at a few passing students. “They’re looking to us on how to act. Let them know nothing has changed. Keep it together until after we leave.”

“Yes, Heather.”

“And keep the bitching to a minimum at Heather’s. We have someone else joining us for croquet today.”

It’s entertaining, watching Duke’s face. Starting at apprehension, flowing into interest, before realization and an expression of grim acceptance.

“Oh, no.”

 

-

 

“Yesssss,” Veronica hisses, the rush of turning pages, as her ball rolls slowly through the hoop.  Chandler doesn’t know why she’s so pleased about it; Veronica’s only up to the ninth wicket while Chandler’s already pegged out. While she seems happy, there’s still the occasional darting eyes, the need for assurance. The game helps, as Heather had intended it to, but it’s almost like Veronica’s afraid to let that fear go.

There may be something in that.

“So, how’s college treating you, Wynne?” McNamara asks as she takes her turn.

“As good as it can,” Veronica shrugs, “Remington wasn’t my first choice.”

Duke thwacks the green ball and it goes flying past the stake. No second place for her, not just yet. “What’s your major, anyway?”

“English. Thought you would have got that, with the whole ‘paying with a story’ thing.”

Chandler grins, leaning on her mallet. “Good thing Heather takes those as currency. It’s not like you’ll ever be able to afford to pay her back, not with an English degree.”

McNamara and Duke laugh, as they have been trained to do. Veronica offers a little chuckle as an attempt to fit in.

“Fair point. It’s something I’m pretty good at, though. Do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life, wasn’t it?”

Heather smiles an angelic smile as Veronica prepares to take her shot. _Bullshit. Utter bullshit. If you’re doing something you love, it’s probably not profitable._ If her father has taught her nothing else, it’s that sacrifices have to be made to earn your wealth.

McNamara sneaks up to one side as she thinks.

“I like her,” McNamara whispers, “do you like her?”

Heather scoffs. “No shit, Heather. I wouldn’t have asked her to come otherwise.”

“ _I think you know that’s not what I mean._ ”

Chandler’s smile freezes. Her eyes grow cold as she turns to face McNamara, who is now clearly regretting her life choices.

“It’s your turn, Heather,” she murmurs, and McNamara visibly shivers as she scurries off.

It would have been easier to call her out. A simple denial, or perhaps turning the accusation back on McNamara. Chandler does neither. She can’t bring herself to refute that accusation, and she doesn’t know why.

Rather than slipping into self-scrutiny, she watches an increasingly upbeat Veronica with narrowed eyes.

 

Chandler wins the match, Veronica loses. It feels like the other way around.

 

-

 

Three hours later, and she still doesn’t understand why she didn’t say ‘no’.

Heather’s straight. She’s proved it – what – how many times, now? She wears heels, lipstick, the whole heterosexual deal. No combat boots or flannel for her, no sir, she’d rather die than be seen in that.

More importantly, if she’s _not_ straight, she’d be thrown out with the rest of the trash. If boys have no hope of having her, they won’t want her. And the girls, well, they had plenty of ways to completely ruin someone’s life. Heather would know.

Heather Duke would just stand there and laugh as Westerburg tore Chandler apart like the monster it is. Would she even be surprised when it turned on her, too?

Chandler groans, scrunching her eyes shut in frustration. For the umpteenth time today, she curses Heather McNamara.

 

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Veronica as the guest room door swings open. She’s in her corner again, reading the book Duke lent her – _Catcher in the Rye_ , Heather vaguely notes.

“How many favors do I have?” she snaps.

“Three.” The response is immediate, like a new recruit in front of a particularly nasty drill sergeant.

Heather’s agitation fades for a moment – she hasn’t been cheated. “You can do emotions, right?”

“Sure can,” the panic in Veronica’s eyes eases just a little, “works differently from objects, of course. Figured out what you want?”

Heather opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. She knows what she wants. She (mostly) _always_ knows what she wants. She just doesn’t know how to voice it.

“Too much introspection for one day, huh?” Her servant half-grins, and Heather goes cold with the revelation Veronica knows something’s up, “Let’s start simple. Is it happiness you wanna feel?”

Heather crosses her arms. “Why would anyone want to feel anything else?”

“Some don’t need my help for that, others don’t want it. Yes or no?”

“Yes. I…”

Heather finds herself distracted by Veronica’s eyes. The fear is gone now, eclipsed by curiosity. Not eager anticipation, hanging onto her every word, but not ignoring her either. No expectation. Just waiting.

A weight in Heather’s chest she didn’t even know was there lifts, and she misses it, if only for its familiarity.

“I’m sure you know the feeling of being hunted. Like every move you make is being watched,” Heather mutters.

“Oh ho ho, yeah.”

Chandler grips her upper arms, her nails sure to leave dents in the skin. “I want that to go away. I don’t want to worry. I want to feel like I’m safe. Like I’m me.”

Veronica’s nod is almost imperceptible as she mulls this over. Heather hates that more than the absence of judgement. It gives her time to regret her decision; she shouldn’t have let the mask slip. Veronica will think less of her now, she won’t have the same level of power over her as before, this was a mistake-

“Do you have any good paper?” Veronica asks, breaking through the layers of Heather’s contemplation like an ice pick through a frozen lake, “The notebook’s fine for physical things, but intangibles are better with stronger stuff.”

Heather blinks once, twice. Back to reality. “Sure. There’s some in my dad’s office, not like he’s not around to use it. Once you stop drooling over Holden Caulfield, you can get started.”

Another weak taunt (and Veronica seems to know this, if her amused expression is anything to go by), but Heather has to take back control somehow. She can’t slip. Not even in front of a girl whose existence is known only by a few.

 _Especially_ not in front of her.

 

-

 

Heather eventually decides the best way of dealing with this can of worms McNamara’s opened is not to think. How many times has she said that to Duke, or Kurt? Chandler’s the one who makes the decisions, and they don’t _really_ need a brain to follow orders. Only ears.

So she doesn’t think. Not about _that_ , anyway. She focuses on her pawns (McNamara is afraid to be alone with her half the time, and Duke is spending way too much time in the Yearbook Club’s dingy little filing room), she focuses on her makeup and her outfits (she spends hours preparing both), and whenever anything concerning Veronica wriggles its way into her head ( _the way Chandler got all tongue-tied when she asked her what made her feel safe, those attentive eyes that seem to care, the way her skin might feel against Heather’s),_ she shuts that shit down, hard.

It’s not exactly working. It’s not getting worse, though, and that’s enough for now.

Something finally distracts her from her seemingly endless suffering. It comes in the form of paper, fluttering down to the floor when Heather opens her locker one day.

 _Masquerade_ , it reads in careful cursive. _Saturday, 7:30 PM Start_. An address is printed at the bottom – it’s familiar, but Heather can’t remember why.

 

She shows Duke, engrossed in a book as per usual. A yearbook from the early sixties, for some reason.

“Yeah, I got one of those,” Duke answers absentmindedly, “I recognized the address. It’s Keith’s house. You remember Country Club Keith?”

Heather sifts through her mind to search for the face. She does remember, eventually – the boy who keeps going on about how his dad is a great investor. It’s why Courtney gets asked the questions, now, since his answers are always the same: No matter what, let Daddy deal with it.

“Vaguely.”

“His parents must be out of town for the weekend. Wants to throw a party. Dresses it up in a fancy theme and pretend we won’t notice it’s the same thing every other kid does when their folks are gone.” Duke shuts the yearbook, sending a small puff of dust into the air. “Not this one.”

“Do you know anyone else who got invited?”

Duke replaces the yearbook on its shelf, going from 1962 to ’61. “Yep. Kurt’s invited. Ram, too, surprisingly. Probably trying to attract _your_ attention.” She looks Heather in the eye for the first time today. “Are we going?”

“I’m still deciding. Assume we are until I say otherwise.”

Satisfied, Duke returns to her study.

Like a match being struck, a memory in Heather's head flickers to life. She’d told Veronica about Duke’s sudden obsession with Westerburg history. What was she supposed to say to her…?

“Oh, yeah. Wynne said she owes you a favor.”

“Yeah?”

“1956. Or 1955. And to keep what you find to yourself. Clearly that means something to you nerds.”

Duke’s eyes widen for a moment, before she scrambles to the shelf to find her prize. Chandler hears something crash to the ground and a series of expletives, as she turns her back and leaves.

 

McNamara is hunched over on a bleacher when Chandler finds her, a water bottle and a piece of paper dangling from her fingers.

“Party,” she mumbles, unmoving when Heather approaches, “I know. Most of the squad got invited.”

Chandler scowls. “God, what is it _with_ you two today? Heather’s had her nose stuck in old yearbooks for the past week, and you look like a puppet with its strings all cut.”

“ _Don’t call me a puppet._ ”

McNamara’s tone is mostly miserable, but there’s something darker, something angry, lurking on the edge of her voice. Not something Heather’s used to when talking to someone so scared, nervously looking to her for direction.

Wait. Does she…

…No. Veronica is the exception, not the rule. Anxiety is a normal thing for normal people to have. Loads of people want to be led. It means nothing.

Chandler puts a hand on her hip, quirking an eyebrow. “It’s just an analogy, Heather. Maybe if you paid attention in English, you’d know that. Now, who pissed in your Cheerios?”

McNamara holds up the paper. Another invitation. “No-one should send things like this. It’s creepy. Like, ‘come to this abandoned warehouse at 1AM for a good time’ creepy. Uh, _no_ , this is the exact sort of thing that ends with me being kidnapped and stuff.”

“Relax,” Chandler says, silky smooth, “it’s Country Club Keith’s house. I recognize the address. He’s just a pretentious snob, not a psycho killer.”

McNamara still looks unconvinced, but she nods slowly. “Do I have to buy a mask, then?”

“ _Duh_. It’s a masquerade, of course we need masks. Everyone who’s worth a damn is going to be there, Heather, we are _not_ missing this.”

That’s a lie, of course. It’s Heather who makes or breaks a party. But McNamara still needs to be punished, and a perfect opportunity has just floated down from on high.

 

-

 

Heather knocks four times on her bedroom door, the cadence like a galloping horse, before letting herself in. It’s a way of letting Veronica know exactly who’s coming in, after one too many near-heart attacks.

Veronica smiles up at her from her usual spot, before returning to her previous activity – staring angrily at the paper in front of her. Chandler spies a few failed attempts littering the space around her trash can.

“Still not done?”

“Nope.” She gestures vaguely to Heather’s vanity. “Found something to tide you over for now.”

Heather follows the movement. There’s an old frying pan sitting there, surrounded by Heather’s vast collection of makeup brushes and hair products like some sort of shrine.

“Cast iron. You’ve already got a knife, so I covered the other angle,” Veronica makes it sound like that makes any sort of sense. A blunt weapon as well as a blade, maybe.

Doesn’t matter. What matters is that Veronica can’t help her right now. At least, not with her… words…

Heather flops backwards onto her bed, closing her eyes for a blessed moment.

“Come over here for a sec.”

Chandler hears the creak of the chair, and the gentle sound of footsteps on carpet. They come to a halt beside her.

“May I sit?” Veronica asks.

( _Please_.)

“Sure, whatever.”

Heather feels the mattress sink, and her heart soars.

“So, what I’m about to ask isn’t part of our deal,” Chandler explains, “that means you can say no, if you want. Just… don’t put this on my tab, is what I’m saying. We clear?”

“Crystal.”

Heather fiddles with the hem of her skirt. Her eyes remain closed, but she can feel Veronica’s gaze on her. She should be enjoying this, but there’s something clutching at her chest that gives her pause.

“Tell me a story.”

“Oh. Uh. Okay.”

Heather smirks. “What were you expecting to hear?”

“Nothing!” Veronica says quickly, “Well, not like that, I mean – I didn’t expect anything. I was thinking about which story I would tell.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Ronnie.”

Heather feels the shifting air and the mattress dipping further down as Veronica lies next to her. The invisible hand gripping at Chandler’s heart tightens its hold.

“Fine, Miss Passive-Aggressive 1989,” Veronica grumbles half-heartedly, “how about this one?”

 

-

 

The story is this:

The Gentry do not understand humans. If they did, they wouldn’t be as they are – they are primordial chaos, creatures of conflict and capriciousness. A handful of the nobility understand some human constructs, like time or morality, but not how it relates to them.

So, when the Prince first heard of the phrase ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’, His obsession with power drove Him to test the theory in a grand duel. Not to the death, but to the first grievous injury. He couldn’t stand to lose any of His favorite toys permanently. He’d just ‘fix’ the defeated party, beat them back into shape, file away the flaws until there's nothing left but dust.

The Champion of the Sword – a giant, fifteen feet tall, spikes of bone poking through the skin along his forearms and his shins. His weapon, a slab of metal hammered into shape, two feet wide and twice as long.

The Champion of the Pen, of course, was The Wordsmith, whose talents were _not_ suitable for battle.

Fearing for her life, she appealed to her opponent the night before the battle. A last minute attempt at escape.

“Listen, this whole gladiator battle thing is stupid. Unbelievably stupid. You get a fuck-off sized sword, I get a dinky pen. Now, I know He’ll have both our hides if we say ‘to hell with you, we’re not doing this’, but maybe we can work something out. Something mutually beneficial.”

“Speak for yourself,” The Giant guffawed, “you ain’t gonna be nothing but a smooshed black stain when I’m done. Then, maybe, I’ll get them drudges to scrub and bleach that spot until there’s no sign of you left.”

He proved himself to be hard-headed, confident, as he should be. He left no holes in his defenses for The Wordsmith's voice of reason to seep through, like water through damaged dam. She was ready to despair, to write herself a suicide note and perform one last of disrespect to her keeper.

Then, she remembered where she was.

The Wordsmith grinned. “That’s not how it works. Not here.”

The Giant puzzled over this response. He was the peak of physical strength, one who tore a tunnel through mountains of obsidian with his bare hands. His opponent was nothing.

“Think back, pal. David and Goliath, Odysseus and the Cyclops, Saint George and the Dragon. The underdog wins against the giant threat.”

“They’re stories. Don’t work that way in reality,” The Giant growled, a dissenting voice edging its way into his head.

“And this isn’t reality,” The Wordsmith crowed, “if He thinks the pen is mightier than the sword, the pen _will_ be the one to win!”

She fled, as The Giant began his night of madness. He screamed in rage and fear, tore away at himself, reduced the room to rubble, incensed and betrayed and forlorn at the mere thought that all he had could fail him at another’s whim.

The time of the melee arrived, and the ragged champions, both wrought with fear and fatigue, began what could loosely be described as a duel. The Wordsmith ducked and weaved around The Giant’s swings, quick but clumsy. As The Giant’s anger grew, so too did the arcs of his sword strokes. His last attempt to hit The Wordsmith sent him toppling over, and she took the chance to plunge her pen deep into his right eye.

The Wordsmith had hoped to avoid the scrutiny that defeat would bring, but was instead praised and prized by her hated Prince. The Giant was dragged off for ‘improvement’, and whatever awaited him was sure to shatter what little was left of his sanity.

 

-

 

“Well, shit.”

“A+ review there, Heather. Real constructive,” Veronica snarks. Heather feels around the bed, trying and failing to find a pillow to throw at her.

Tales like this usually had a moral, even it ended up as simple as ‘don’t stray from the path or you’ll die horribly’. What was the message here? That doubting yourself was mightier than both biros and blades? Well, tough shit, story. Heather Chandler is all about doubt. How she induces it in others, and how it’s consuming her right now.

Chandler dares to open an eye. Veronica is staring right back at her, a gentle smile on her face. The fading light through the window lights up Veronica’s frizzy bob cut, forming a halo full of hairline cracks.

_Damn Heather McNamara to the ninth circle of hell._

“Hey, Veronica. I have a question.”

“Ask away.”

 

( _Will you hold me? Kiss me? You treat me as I truly am, but can you look me in the eye and say there’s nothing wrong with me?_ )

 

“Would you like to come to a party this weekend?”


	5. Classical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Dubious Consent and Graphic Violence.

Heather leans her head against the window. Her breath leaves clouds on the glass with every exhale that disappear seconds later. An apt metaphor for the fleeting nature of life, of youth and joy. A veil to view the world through, dissipating far too quickly to truly be appreciated.

She should really turn on the radio, or something. If her boredom’s gotten to the point she’s waxing philosophical about _breathing_ , it’s probably a sign.

Really, all she’s trying to do is ignore Veronica, humming some song Heather doesn’t recognize while they wait for a suitable moment to make their entrance (they arrived on time, but it wouldn’t do to imply they care about Keith’s instructions). Heather shouldn’t be surprised at how good Veronica looks in the outfit she’s wearing – off-the-shoulder top, tight black dress, beaded blue brooch – after all, she’s the one who bought it for her. It’s just when it’s all put together, it’s seriously distracting.

Heather can’t wait to show her off. Can’t wait to watch them stare at Veronica like she’s a precious gem in a glass case – something enticing, beautiful, but only available to the best of the best.

The ‘best of the best’ being Heather Chandler and nobody else.

There’s a screech of tires as a moss-green Jeep comes careening around the corner. Veronica jumps a little at the noise.

“Christ,” she mutters, more to herself than Heather, “haven’t had to deal with that in ages.”

“Well, that noise means it’s time to get out. That’s Heather Duke’s car.”

Veronica frowns – well, Heather's pretty sure she frowned. Chandler can’t see the furrowed brow through her dark blue mask, but it’s implied. “You mean, Green Heather? Snarky Bookworm Heather?”

“That’s right. You’re learning.”

“…Huh. She hates the world so much that all other road users have to suffer, is that it?”

Heather just smiles as she fishes her domino mask out of her purse. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe.”

“Had enough of that from the hot-rodders at the end of my street growing up. Whatever. Let’s get going.”

To be honest, Heather doesn’t actually know which of the houses is Keith’s. Just another element of disrespect she’s subconsciously heaped onto the self-righteous bastard, she thinks as she locks the car and struts down the street to meet her friends. He probably deserves it, anyway.

Veronica mentioned something about making the Duke’s and McNamara’s masks, as part of their free sample. It’s possible. They fit their face perfectly, almost as if they don’t need the silk ribbon to hold them in place. Duke’s has tiny tendrils of ivy, curling around her face like it’s a garden wall. McNamara’s is covered in velvet, delicate musical notes inscribed into the fabric. It helps hide the bedraggled look that comes with being a passenger on Heather Duke’s Wild Ride.

Chandler looks them both over critically, looking for any serious imperfections. Semi-formal, yellow and green, in fashion. Check, check, check.

“Nice,” she says after a few seconds, and McNamara visibly relaxes. “Good to see you didn’t flake on me, Heather.”

McNamara shrugs. “Heather McNamara was supposed to show, so I’m here.”

Weird phrasing, but an acceptable answer. “Lead the way,” Chandler tells Duke.

Duke grins, drunk off of the mere illusion of power, and there's a spring in her step as she guides them to Keith's house.

 

Keith greets them at the door with Courtney on his arm and a smile on his lips, but not in his eyes. It’s like he’s rehearsed for this, and Heather has to wonder if he actually did. It’s in the way he holds himself, attempts at a confidence he doesn’t have, like a kid trying to imitate his father. That’s pretty much what he is, come to think of it.

His gaze drags over the four of them, lingering a little too long on Veronica.

“Well, please come in, all of you. I’m sure we’ll have ample opportunity to chat later.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” McNamara mutters as they enter.

Chandler scowls. “I can’t take you anywhere, can I? Harden up, Heather.”

(This is McNamara’s punishment. She may be absolutely right, but that works just fine for Chandler’s purposes.)

The babble of muttered conversation rises in a wave of sound as everyone’s decision to attend is validated by the appearance of the Heathers. Heather can hear wolf whistles from near the back door – it seems Kurt and Ram are already here. McNamara scurries off to find Kurt, and Duke is already searching for the alcohol. Veronica stays by Chandler’s side, watching the sea of faces in amazement (and maybe a touch of fear).

“Thought this was gonna be a smaller event,” she stammers.

“So did I,” Chandler grumbles, “guess Keith isn’t as picky as he seems. It’ll be fine – if anyone asks you a question, just be as vague as possible. You’re good at that.”

“And you’ll be there if something goes wrong. Promise?”

Oh. This again. Well, Heather doesn’t want Veronica to worry. “I swear on my reputation.”

There’s a flicker of ink-black in brown eyes, and Veronica smiles. Whatever that did, Heather is feeling more grounded, more certain about this than before.

Then, Veronica’s eyes return to the horde of partygoers, and stop on the far corner of the room.

“Oh, damn.”

She doesn’t sound disappointed, or angry. It’s genuine surprise that’s in her voice. Heather cranes her neck, trying to see the person who caught her attention.

“Oh, _fuck_ no.”

Keith _really_ isn’t picky, if that psycho got an invite. She storms over, and the ocean of teens parts just enough to let her through.

She reaches her target. He’s wearing a cheap mask like everyone else, and he took off his damn trenchcoat for once, but that smile, like a cat that caught the mouse, _that’s_ what lets her know it’s Jason Dean.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Heather growls.

His smirk doesn’t waver. “What a strange introduction. I got an invitation – ah, I tell a lie. I _found_ an invitation, and figured it might be interesting.” He jerks his head towards Veronica, still disentangling herself from the crowd. “I was right.”

“You stay away from her, you get me? She’s _mine_. You lay a hand on her, I’ll put a _real_ bullet between your eyes.”

“You know him?” Veronica asks, free at last.

“How could I not? It’s Jason Dean. School shooter,” Heather adds in response to Veronica's confusion.

Recognition flashes across his face, though he tries to hide it. “What are you talking about? My name is Jack Dufour, JD for short.”

“ _How stupid do you think I am?!_ ”

Another voice pipes up from behind her.

“It’s not Jason.”

Chandler whips around, her glare as sharp and cold as shards of ice. To her credit, Heather McNamara only flinches slightly. Maybe it’s because Kurt and Ram are flanking her like the guard dogs they are.

"Another one!" JD exclaims. Heather is _incensed_. Why is McNamara questioning her, running her mouth? Doesn’t she remember _why_ they’re here in the first place?

“It’s not Jason,” the girl in the golden dress repeats, “I would know. I have class with him.”

Kurt nods in agreement, pulling off his paper plate mask (he and Ram clearly spent a lot of time on them). “The guy in the coat was a weedy little shit. This one’s a bit better. Not on my level, of course, but better.”

Heather looks at the pair of them, then back to JD. True, this kid looked a bit more sturdy than the day in the cafeteria, his face a little rounder, younger. At least he doesn’t look completely soulless this time, amusement dancing in his eyes like a crackling fire.

“You’re on thin fucking ice,” she hisses, half to him, half to McNamara. JD raises his hands in surrender, still smiling. _Asshole_.

There’s a rough pair of hands on her shoulders, pinching and digging into the skin. Ram’s trying to give her a massage. He’s done it before, and it has never managed to do anything but make Chandler even more uncomfortable.

“I’m loving your excitement, babe,” he says, a poor attempt at seduction, “but I have something better for you to get all worked up over. Why don’t we take this upstairs?”

Ah, yes. Reality comes crashing down on Heather, and it hits harder than usual. Still, it’s a necessary sacrifice – ten minutes upstairs, and she gets to keep the football team on side for now. If she refuses, she’s a prude, and that’s another crack in her armor for people to take advantage of.

Heather looks sadly over at Veronica, and the disappointment on her face causes a painful twinge in Chandler’s chest.

“I won’t be long,” she murmurs. It does nothing to ease the hurt. “Stay where you can be seen. I’ll be back.”

Heather does what she has to do.

 

It’s not great. Ram’s less demanding than the boys at Remington, at least. Heather can get away with a makeout session and _maybe_ some action around the crotch area, and his left hand can fill in the blanks later. He’ll whine, of course, acting like he’ll die if she doesn’t give him ‘relief’, but he’s survived this long without it. Heather’s just happy she can get away with it.  

Still, this time is even more miserable than usual. Probably because so much has happened between the Remington Party and now. Even her dreams are better than this, and they’re just all her waking thoughts squashed together in one nonsensical sequence (and that’s why Veronica shows up so often).

…Hm.

Ram’s getting more insistent, now, his chapped lips pushing against hers, his tongue trying to enter her mouth like he’s a particularly excitable dog trying to lick her face. It might be better to pretend that’s the case, she muses as she closes her eyes.

Maybe someone else can take his spot in her mind’s eye. Maybe someone she actually wants to spend a night with.

She deepens the kiss, pretending it’s Veronica Sawyer’s (presumed) inexperience instead of Ram Sweeney’s incompetence.

 

When she gets a chance to ditch him, Heather descends the stairs with all the grace expected of royalty such as herself. She searches the crowd for a sign of the blue mask, but both she and JD are missing. Something settles into her stomach, like stones at the bottom of a lake, when she realizes this.

Might be worry. Might be anger. Hell, might even be jealousy. Until she knows the reason Veronica’s gone, it’s up in the air. 

Duke, leaning up against the empty fireplace with drink in hand, says she hasn’t seen Veronica. She also makes it clear doesn’t much care where she’s gone.

“Something’s seriously warped with that girl,” she spits, “why’d you bring her, anyway?”

“She’s useful. Now, move. We’re making sure she hasn’t done anything stupid.”

Chandler pauses, before picking up the poker beside the mantelpiece and grabbing Duke’s elbow to drag her away.

McNamara joins the quest willingly, perhaps seeking forgiveness for her defiance. Kurt wants the chance to show off, so of course Ram follows to back him up.

“Did any of you see her leave?” Heather enquires, eyes flicking to Duke, “I know you haven’t seen anything, Heather, shut up.”

McNamara chews her lower lip in contemplation. “I saw Courtney talking to Not-Jason earlier. Keith wasn’t there, so maybe he was chatting with Veronica.”

“Cool. Still on thin ice, Heather. Did you see where-”

 

**_PAIN HOT STINGING DRIPPING DOWN HER ARM STALE AIR SCENT OF DEATH SCRAPING METAL GROWLING GLINTING GOLD_ **

**_BASEMENT_ **

 

Then all the sensations are gone, and Heather's back at the party, her closest allies waiting expectantly. Still reeling from the sensory overload, Heather’s head snaps towards Duke.

“Where’s the basement?”

Duke’s eyes are wide with panic. “I said I knew Keith’s address, not his fucking floor plan!”

“Fine! Either find Keith and get him to tell you, or find which one of these doors leads down. Go! Now!”

They scatter, and Chandler practically runs for each door she sees. She tries to open each for a nanosecond before moving on to the next. She really should be wondering what that split-second of waking nightmare was, but she thinks she knows.

She'd promised Veronica she'd be there if something went wrong, and now Heather knows exactly where she is.

 

Every door in this house has a lock on it. Heather isn’t sure if they all have separate keys, and the idea is another layer of growing dread. She knows the other partygoers are watching her, corvids waiting for their chance to tear apart the carcass, but she staked her reputation on keeping this one safe. It’s a lose-lose situation, and Heather is pissed at herself for putting herself into it.

She cares about Veronica. Heather hates when she cares. Her heart aches, it’s hard to swallow, and worst of all, the doubt that she’s good enough, that she deserves what she’s worked so hard for, seeping into her skin like the creeping cold.

One door opens. There’s stone stairs leading down, and the faintest hint of flickering light at the bottom.

Heather has never been so relieved to descend into hell.

 

The light source is a lantern, sitting next to ““Jack Dufour”” as he fiddles with a lock. There are three on the maybe-metal door – one chain, one key, one latch – all on the outside. Odd.

Clearly, that means this must be it.

The clang of iron on stone as Heather slams the poker down causes JD to curse under his breath.

“ _Where?_ ” Heather hisses.

JD points at the door, eyeing Chandler’s weapon of choice with approval. Heather can see the thin metal sticking out of the keyhole – he’s trying to pick the lock. “I can hear her. She’s still talking, not to me, but she’s alive.”

“Good. Then shut up and keep going.”

JD mutters something to himself in a high-pitched voice. Heather narrows her eyes, but she’s not going to stop him. She has no history of breaking and entering, nor is she going to try and break down the door.

As soon as she thinks it, there’s muffled yelling, and the sound of a small crowd following Chandler down the stairs. Country Club Keith is unceremoniously thrown at her feet by Kurt and Ram, a prisoner before the queen.

Glaring with the fury of a goddess scorned, Heather places the sharp end of the poker on the back of his hand and leans down to meet him.

“This was my job,” Keith babbles, “I have to feed it. We wouldn’t have survived Black Monday without it. She said she hasn’t seen her parents in ages, they won’t look for her.”

Chandler leans on the poker just enough to make him cry out in pain. It takes barely any pressure at all. “You. Stupid. _Cunt_.” She looks up at Kurt. “The key. Check him for the key.”

“I’m almost through. Two seconds,” JD calls out from behind her.

“Well, never fucking mind, then!” Heather pulls herself to her feet with the help of the poker, and she feels her weapon puncture skin as she does (Maybe Keith's made of paper, too). “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to clean up your mess.”

She hears before she sees – the creak of the opened door, Kurt and Ram’s exclamations, Veronica speaking so quickly and breathlessly Heather isn’t sure it’s even English.

Clinking. Grinding. Like coins being rubbed together.

Heather turns.

It’s bear-sized, gold coins embedded into its back like scales. Gems adorn every part of it – diamond teeth and claws, eyes of cut ruby, sapphires and emeralds and gems of every color decorating its skin.

It growls, the guttural noise ringing with the sound of money changing hands.

Chandler charges.

 

-

 

When she was old enough to remember, but still young enough that her parents were still there for her, Heather remembers the stories her mother told her.

They all had their basis in France (of course), stories like Beauty and the Beast, Puss in Boots, Little Red Riding Hood, but Heather liked the stuff about Lancelot the best. He was perfect in every way – an impeccable gentleman, a peerless warrior, willing to go to the ends of the earth to save damsels in distress. Heather decided early on in life that only someone like that would ever be good enough for her.

Well. That was wrong, obviously.

Heather had thought herself Guinevere, instead of the knight.

 

-

 

The iron poker goes through the creature’s head like a hot knife through butter. It screeches like its claws are dragging down a chalkboard. Chandler can hear Keith’s faint screaming as his family secret is brought low.

Iron. Cold iron. Of course.

Heather tugs, and her makeshift lance is freed. She jabs and strikes, the melted gold and silver trickling to the floor like tears.

The creature soon collapses under its own weight, and it grows still after one last stab to its neck. The gilt outer shell dissolves as if burned away; a duller, greener mineral takes its place.

Fool’s gold.

Chandler only vaguely acknowledges Ram’s whooping ( _like he helped at all_ ) as her attention turns to the room’s other occupant.

Veronica looks up at her with shining eyes, clutching at her arm. The left one, the same one that pained Heather for the briefest of moments.

“Good to see you kept your word,” Veronica croaks.

Heather feels bile rise up in her throat. Veronica’s forearm is _shredded_ – skin dangles loosely off of the flesh like scraps of tissue paper, and Chandler swears she sees a hint of white beneath the glistening muscle.

“Not good enough, clearly,” Heather replies, and there’s a break in her voice ( _her mask_ ) that she prays no-one notices.

“This? Tried to pull me in, but it lost its grip. I’m ambidextrous, it’s fine.”

Veronica’s got that blank look on her face, the one she wears whenever something’s gotten under her skin ( _this time it’s literal_ , Chandler almost retches at the idea). Must be a defense mechanism, and Heather wonders at what happened to her that she deems nearly being devoured by a money monster as nothing.

Heather grips Veronica’s good hand, as if Veronica will disappear if she doesn’t. “It’s seriously _not_ fine. Parties haven’t ended in murder for at _least_ ten years now. I shouldn’t have left you.”  

Chandler’s lips are still struggling to say ‘I’m sorry’ when she’s interrupted by a choking gasp.

McNamara and Duke look almost intimidating when backlit by JD’s lantern, the effect ruined by their expression of pure horror. The boy himself has his burning gaze on Keith.

“What the _hell_ have you done?”

“My father,” Keith wails, “he traded something for it! So long as we feed it, we earn as much as we want!”

“Look on the bright side. You don’t need to feed it anymore,” McNamara deadpans.

“You’ve ruined everything! My life is over!”

“Oh, poor little rich boy,” Duke sneers, “Heather stops a murder and somehow _she’s_ in the wrong!”

The bickering continues, punctuated by the occasional thud as Kurt or Ram lands a kick on the party’s host. Veronica’s still hunched in the corner, her head bowed, one step away from crumbling completely. Heather wraps her other arm around Veronica’s waist, pulling her close.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs into Veronica’s ear, “it can’t hurt anyone now. You’re safe.”

“You came after me.”

It’s barely above a whisper, but it lights a fire in Chandler’s ice-cold heart. Of course Heather didn’t leave Veronica for dead after she disobeyed, she has a soul too. She could have, easily, and gone back to her life before all this, back to the power and control over everyone and everything. Back to safety.

She didn’t. She never will, because Heather has never felt more alive than when she’s with Veronica.

 

"This party's as dead as Keith come Monday morning. Let's motor. We need to get you to the ER, pronto."


	6. Rise Up from Nothing

Chandler isn’t sure why Duke and McNamara are here. She made it pretty clear that _she’d_ be responsible for taking Veronica to the emergency room, what with her being the only one with both a car and a clear head. It occurs to her that they’re simply worried about Veronica’s arm, now wrapped in a towel they’d stolen from Keith’s bathroom, or they might have a ton of questions for Chandler that their glorious leader has already decided she won’t answer.

She should be glad it’s not JD. That’d be a whole new set of problems.

Doesn’t matter, though. Duke keeps giving Chandler these looks over the top of her dog-eared copy of _Little Women_ , desperate to say _something_ while they wait (Veronica’s not at immediate risk of death, and despite Heather’s objections, the receptionist refuses to budge). Well, Chandler decides, until Duke works up the nerve to come out and ask, she’s just going to keep ignoring her. She’ll just listen in to Veronica and McNamara’s hushed conversation (all she’s gotten so far is McNamara’s feet hurt when she wakes up sometimes) and decide what she’s going to tell the doctor when they finally escape this linoleum purgatory.

_Why, yes, Doc, my friend-slash-secret-crush here (and I can’t say her full name because she might die) was locked in a room with the physical manifestation of how greed fucks people over, which I beat to death with a metal stick. By the way, you know that investment banker uptown? Well, have I got some hot goss for you…_

The tinny voice of the receptionist comes over the speakers. Heather’s not sure why she can’t just say it – They’re right in front of her. All that woman’s done is startle the dozing man in the corner.

“Could Wynne Smith please proceed to treatment room three? Wynne Smith to treatment room three.”

“That’s my cue,” Veronica mutters, standing up. Heather also rises, and three sets of eyes swivel towards her. She expected this, of course. She’s already deviating from the norm by caring.

“You’re like a magnet for weirdness. If I leave you alone, something bad will happen.”

Veronica gives her a half-smile. “Heather, my love, something bad is going to happen to me whether or not you’re here. But sure, you can come.”

Chandler’s eyes widen, and she desperately tries to hide her growing grin when hears the creak of plastic seats from behind her. Duke and McNamara are getting up, too.

“ _Sit_ ,” Heather commands. She hears Duke huff and McNamara chuckle, and she knows one of the Heathers is going to pay for this later.

 _It might be her_.

That thought is what sends her rushing off after Veronica, away from her greatest fear.

 

The wait for the doctor is silent. Veronica either can’t think of any topics or is too focused on her injury to bother with casual conversation. Heather is too busy freaking out over what she’s done.

This is her own fault, really. Constructing this personality, the idea that nothing sticks to her. Not gossip, not relationships, not feelings – she’s heartless, soulless. Heather Chandler would watch a man’s dying breaths and laugh about it later, but _Heather Chandler_ has just shown she’s one step away from squealing in joy when someone she _like_ -likes calls her ‘my love’. Heather and Heather could out her. They’d take her down like Cassius and Brutus stabbing Caesar, then wonder why no-one listens to them once she’s gone.

Heather was _so sure_ Veronica couldn’t do anything to her. In a way, she hasn’t – Chandler has been her own downfall. How very…

She can’t think of the right word. God.

It takes her a moment to process that Veronica has her good hand on Chandler’s shoulder. Heather’s flinch is tiny, but Veronica’s noticed it, no doubt.

“Looks like you’re more torn up over this than I am,” she says, “emotionally, I mean. Got you beat on the physical part.”                    

“Not funny. This is totally unrelated.”

“Is it _really_?”

Heather remains silent. She thinks it’s enough of an answer.

Veronica sighs. “You’ve already done a lot more than I expected of you. Relax a little.”

“You know that does jack shit to help someone’s mood, right?”

“Better than nothing.”

There’s another silence, and just as Heather is about to go back to yelling at herself for showing affection, the hand on her shoulder slips down her arm to thread its fingers between her own.

Chandler’s brain short-circuits for a moment at the sensation. It’s smooth, ridiculously so, but it’s neither soft nor warm. Not quite a polished stone, though, maybe like something wooden covered in calfskin.

“Too much?” Veronica asks. Heather doesn’t know whether her face is worried or mischievous – she doesn’t trust herself to look her in the eye.

“No. It’s fine. This is fine.”

There’s a breath of laughter from Veronica, and a thumb rubs along the back of Heather’s hand. It’s… nice. Heather can’t think of a better word for it. It’s something she likes, something that she wishes would last longer, that she could do it more often without worrying about wandering eyes and the vicious rumors that accompany them.

And yet…

Heather pulls away at the sound of footsteps, and the door swings open.

The sight that greets them is very familiar. Tired brown eyes, dark, messy hair tied back in a bun. But with this one, there’s hints of grey among the black, gentle creases and hairline wrinkles framing her face.

The doctor waves, but it’s jerky and stilted. “…Hi.”

The addition is completely unnecessary, because Veronica has shut down again.

The doctor sighs. “I know, I know. But, really, what were you expecting? When an illustrated woman with spooky eyes and black blood runs up and says that she’s you, you shouldn’t assume you’ll get a good reaction.”

Veronica doesn’t respond. Heather glowers up at this woman, but behind those angry eyes is nothing but blind panic.

( _“I’m not_ that _far in the future, am I?”_ )

( _“1956. Or 1955. And keep what you find to yourself.”_ )

“You’re… Sawyer?”

“Was Davis for a while, but back to Sawyer now.” The doctor holds up her left hand – there’s an imprint at the base of her callused ring finger. “I get that she doesn’t trust me, and I imagine you don’t either. Help me unwrap the towel, see the damage. You’ve kept pressure on it?”

“ _Veronica_ has,” Heather snaps, but she gently takes Veronica by the hand and removes the improvised bandage. The fake Veronica grimaces before moving closer, poking and prodding.

“How long ago did this happen?”

“An hour, an hour and a half. Maybe two.”

“Hmm. Okay. Still workable,” Fake Veronica grumbles, “you’ve put the flappy bits back into position, that’s good, hopefully there’s enough of the underlying structure still attached to avoid necrosis. A bit hard to tell with all the-”

“Everyone else sees red,” Heather interrupts. The doctor blinks once, twice, before she continues her examination. She gets Veronica to move her wrist, elbow, fingers, to make sure there’s no motor damage. Veronica obeys, her eyes glassy, like a marionette. Heather hates it, and the thought that this quack could be doing _something_ to her younger self hits Heather like a knife twisting into her skull.

The doctor nods. “It’s deep, but it’s thin. I should be able to just sew that hole shut. No skin graft necessary, no general anesthesia. You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you?”

Heather’s pretty sure Veronica is meant to answer that question, but she’s too busy mumbling something about a river. Chandler nods in her stead.

“I’m not leaving,” she adds.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised.”

Heather doesn’t have time to think on that before Fake Veronica is out the door. Come to think of it, why does she think the perfectly normal middle-aged woman isn’t real? Why does she think the person made out of a book from the middle ages, currently having a really poetic mental breakdown, is the genuine article?

Exposure, probably.

“I don’t think it I grasped the concept until now,” this Veronica murmurs, “I fought so hard to get back to my family, my friends. My life. I was too busy with my planning, spent too long out of the river of time, while she flowed along in my place. I return to my home after a long-fought battle, only to find naught but rubble and ash.”

“The words are pretty, Ronnie, but they don’t tell me anything.”

Veronica frowns. “…Ronnie?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Heather says hurriedly. There’s a flicker of a smile on Veronica’s face, before it disappears as quickly as it came. “What’s up with the old clone?”

“Changeling, I think. Y’know, fairies steal a baby, put a copy in their place.” Veronica looks at the floor.  “I remember, He said no-one missed me. That no-one was looking for me. That I was alone. When I saw her for the first time, I understood why – no-one _knew_.”

Now, Heather has a witty comeback to this – that the family figured out they’d been duped, but decided they liked the changeling better – but she can’t bring herself to use it. One, because Veronica’s had enough trauma for one day, and two, because the idea chills Heather to the core. There’s a hundred people vying for her position, yes, but were they trying to take her identity as well? Would Chandler walk into school one day to find someone else wearing her clothes and using her voice, while she is left to rot? Worse, would she come back to find her copy grey and wrinkled, with a memory as patchy and unreliable as her grandmother’s, any glory she had long faded?

Well, Keith was keeping a monster in his basement. It’s entirely possible.

“So,” Heather asks, “is she evil? Do I have to kill her?”

“I resent that.”

The door is open again, and the changeling has returned with a collection of vials and syringes.

“If I were evil,” The older Veronica continues, her voice bleeding sincerity, “I wouldn’t be a surgeon. I’d be a dentist.”

There is a long silence.

“Okay, she’s missed the past thirty years, but _you_ , young lady, have no excuse for not getting that.”

“I get it, it’s just not funny,” Heather lies.

Old Veronica pulls a face. “Tough crowd. I have the anesthesia. I’ll start cleaning and suturing, if that’s okay.” She turns to the real Veronica. “Does it still hurt?”

“Oh, yeah, hurts like hell,” is the casual reply, “but that stays between us.”

“Roger that. Let’s get it started. Mind if I chat while I do this?”

Young Veronica shrugs. “I guess. It’d help distract me.”

Heather doesn’t really listen. She’s too busy watching Veronica’s face, every grimace of pain causing that unseen force to clutch at her heart and her own hand to clutch at her purse.

 

The conversation goes something like this –

A sunny day, 1959. Outside study, university gardens, a pocket of peace in a time of stress and uncertainty. Then, a familiar stranger, an amalgamation of ancient texts grafted onto an identical skeleton, bursts through the hedgerow. Their shared name, spoken three times in her presence. A rumble of distant thunder on a cloudless day, and the stranger runs like a fox being chased by ravenous hounds. Young Veronica says the hunt was successful, like it wasn’t obvious.

From that day on, a feeling of emptiness. Being incomplete. Perhaps unrelated – a lack of satisfaction with her life grows from that day. One of two women to be accepted by the College of Surgeons upon her graduation, and a constant struggle for work based on the ‘woman’ part. The stillbirth of her writing career. A marriage of expectations rather than love (“He’s a lawyer, Veronica, he’s a good catch. Besides, you need stability in your life.”). Time seems to blend together, the painfully bright colors of every stress stirred into a slurry of suffering.

Young Veronica understands that. A different angle, of course – like doing a backbreaking chore, where five minutes feels like hours, but on an impossible scale. No time passes in His realm, not really. No hair greys, no wrinkles appear, yet scars still form and bruises bloom. Stuck for too long at…

Seventeen. Yes. She was taken the day before her birthday. Those last few hours were dragged out for thirty-three years, while Old Veronica wishes that time had never happened.

 

Old Veronica pulls a cloth bandage out of a drawer. “I think the nineties will be a better decade for you to grow up in. At least, I hope it will be. So long as nothing happens in the next few months, you’re golden.”

Young Veronica just grunts as she holds out her stitched-up arm. Probably still kicking herself for forgetting her pen – that’s what Heather’s been doing on and off for the past hour.

“Well, it’s not like you can take _my_ life,” Old Veronica retorts, “you’re not fifty, you haven’t been to med school, and you can’t hear your own name too often or something bad happens. Besides, it’s not like you’d want it.”

“What am I supposed to do, then? I don’t have any documentation. I can’t do anything, even if I wanted to.”

Old Veronica pauses. “Forge a new life. Reinvent yourself. I’ll help where I can, I owe you that much, but you do what you need to do to move on.” She faces Heather. “Change the bandages daily. Call me if it takes a turn for the worse.”

She’s gone before Heather can ask what her number is.

“Your clone’s already going senile,” Heather quips. Veronica chuckles, but there’s a watery quality to it.

Shit. Is Veronica crying?

A quick look out of the corner of Heather’s eye confirms this. Sweet Baby Jesus on a unicycle, this girl shakes off a diamond-toothed monstrosity taking a chunk out of her arm, but unfortunate reality gets her? Well, Heather reasons, she’s been outside it for so long. It probably hits Veronica ten times harder than anyone else.

It occurs to Heather she should probably stop these tears somehow. She’s usually the one making people cry, so sympathy doesn’t come naturally.

“Hey.”

“Hmm?” It’s cracked, but hardly noticeable. Like a vase carefully glued back together.

Heather takes Veronica’s hand, intertwining their fingers as they did before.

“She’s not saying you should forget or forgive. Just that you can’t spend the rest of your life in a one-woman pity party. I dunno about Heather, but Heather and I have your back, and the biggest ‘fuck you’ you can give to him is to live free and happy.”

There’s a mumbled ‘thanks’, and that’s reward enough for now.

Then, “Heather?”

“Yeah?”

Veronica looks into Chandler’s eyes, a picture of melancholy only the most mournful of poets could ever hope to match.

“…Nothing.”


	7. Two Selves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Internalized Homophobia, one instance of a homophobic slur.

After three hours of solid note-taking, diagrams and the interrogation of a very tired Veronica, Heather thinks she’s got this whole fairy business down. It feels good, for your work to pay off. She’s sure her teachers would love if she put the same effort into her studies, but to hell with them. This is way more important.

As far as she can work out, the rules are like this – if you’re in Fairy World or Neverland or whatever (Veronica had called it _Tear Na Nogue_ or something, but that’s a dumb name and Chandler’s decided not to use it), you don’t age. Years may pass in the outside world, but you stay as you are – that’s why _her_ Veronica’s still a teenager while the changeling living in her place is having a mid-life crisis. This means Heather’s first impression of Veronica was correct, since she _was_ (unintentionally) fucking around with time. Another imaginary trophy for the figurative cabinet.

Once she has that down, she applies it elsewhere. The Jason Dean (or Jack Dufour) at the party looked similar to, but younger than the Jason Dean that shot up the cafeteria. _À ce titre_ , it’s possible that there are two of him, and that School Shooter JD is the soulless copy of Party JD.

Perfect, she thinks. She’ll just play them off one another, like she does with Westerburg’s various sports teams (both with each other and within themselves). If one takes out the other, that means there’s only one counter-culture weirdo for her to worry about.

Well, she _would_ , if she knew what Party JD did with his time when he’s not picking locks and sneaking into gatherings he’s not invited to. Where does he even live?

Well, it doesn’t matter. Neither Jason should be present at school until next week, and she still has to deal with the fallout from Saturday. McNamara keeps looking at her strangely as they drive to Westerburg, and Chandler’s checked herself in the rear-view mirror three times to make sure there’s nothing on her face.

She sighs. “What’s the problem _now_ , Heather?”

“Nothing,” is the automatic response – Chandler knows this isn’t always true, so she waits. “Well, it’s something. I’m still thinking over Saturday and stuff.”

“Yeah, well, it certainly wasn’t normal party fare.”

“How did he get that thing into his house? I didn’t see it, but it didn’t sound smart enough to make any deals.”

“I dunno. Might have been traded, like a car salesman trying to sell you a Mercedes with a rusted-out engine. Looks impressive at first, ultimately a bad choice.”

McNamara nods slowly. “So, what’s the story we’re going with? No-one’s gonna believe me if I say you killed a monster Keith’s dad kept around.”

Heather drums her fingers on the steering wheel. Let’s see. When Veronica first showed up she was worried she was dealing with a demon come to take what was left of her soul. Since this is definitely related…

“I’m thinking there’s something messed up going on in there,” Chandler decides, “definitely something cult related. That masquerade was all just a ploy to find someone off the radar, since he said he picked Wynne ‘cause she hasn’t spoken to her parents in a while. And that creepy basement… good thing we were there to shut that shit down, huh, Heather?”

McNamara grins.

 

-

 

“So? How was the party?”

“Eh, it was okay. Keith said no alcohol. Some stuff got through, but I dunno if that’s a good or a bad thing.”

“I kind of get that. Less property damage. I’m sure nearly everything in that house would cost more than a year’s worth of Foodless Fund donations to replace if some wasted teen broke it.”

“I never said I didn’t understand. The whole masquerade thing helped, I think, people could pretend no-one knew who they were. Removes the inhibitions that drinking themselves stupid usually does. But, apparently Keith tried to sacrifice a girl to the devil while completely sober, so score one for booze.”

“…Peter?”

“Hmm?”

“Why wasn’t that the first thing you mentioned?”

"Because, _Dennis_ , you would have stopped listening and started planning your exposé on teenage Satanists."

“…You got me there.”

 

-

 

The rumor mixes things up, of course. It spreads like wildfire, and it changes the landscape like one, too. Keith isn’t around to deny the accusation (Chandler doesn’t know where he’s vanished off to), but Courtney is all too happy to throw him under the bus to save herself. There’s a lot more talk from the weird Christian kids, accusing people of being vulnerable to the Lord of Darkness’ influences. Chandler is at the top of their list, obviously, but everyone knows she’s the one who uncovered Keith’s nefarious plan. She’s… well, ‘good’ is still a stretch, but ‘righteous’ isn’t.

People start coming to Duke and McNamara, even Ram in a pinch, to report the wrongdoings that they won’t tell a teacher about. A few brave souls speak to Chandler directly – she rewards those she deems worthy by actually investigating their claims (and verbally eviscerates them if they’re bullshitting her). She starts to solve minor disputes on occasion, and that only spurs the student body on in their belief that Chandler’s worthy of her position.

That made sense, didn’t it? A queen should uphold the laws of her kingdom, a knight should dole out the penalty for breaking them. Heather was worshipped even more than before, and that’s exactly what she wants. It was just that now, those laws might _almost_ be fair.

Almost.

 

-

 

She’s still riding high as the days go by, and Veronica provides the cherry on top of the ice-cream sundae that is the week with some news.

“Your first favor,” she tells Heather, “I think I’m done.”

“Took you long enough,” Chandler quips, but she’s careful to keep it playful – can’t have Veronica thinking she doesn’t appreciate the effort.

“Well, it was tough. Usually I personalize these things, make ‘em more effective, but you wouldn’t tell me what makes you feel safe.”

There’s a reason for that – Heather isn’t exactly sure what comforts her. She’s supposed to be all sharp edges, stainless steel. She’s not supposed to need any sanctuary.

“Well? Where is it?”

Veronica taps one of Mr. Chandler’s custom envelopes. “It wears off the more you read it, so use it wisely.”

“Nice.” A thought pops into Heather’s head, and she frowns. “Does it work on you?”

Veronica shakes her head. That’s just sad, Heather thinks. The one person who needs a pick-me-up more than anyone else can’t do anything to stop her fear and sadness.

“Okay,” she says, “I can fix that. What makes you feel secure? Apart from walls, I mean.”

Veronica blinks, taken aback. “Um… I suppose iron makes me feel safe, and salt, for the same reason. Geez, I haven’t thought about this for ages. Hadn’t got the chance.”

“It’s not easy, is it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m eating my words over here.”

There’s another silence, like the ones at the hospital. Not quite awkward, but the stench of things unsaid hangs in the air.

“…You,” Veronica mutters.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“ _You_ make me feel safe. The only time anything bad’s happened since I got out was when you weren’t there. So, yeah. You’re a walking ward against the weird.”

That… does something to Heather. It’s nothing magical, she thinks, just a combination of emotions she hasn’t felt before. Satisfaction with a job well done, thankfulness for the compliment, a sprinkle of guilt, all on top of that fluttery sensation in her chest she gets when she thinks of Veronica.

…God, feelings suck.

“You alright there, Heather?”

God, feelings _really_ suck. Feelings can fuck right off, back to Hell where they came from.

“Yeah, it’s nothing,” Heather replies (it’s not true, and she’s pretty sure Veronica knows this), “so, what do I need to do? Do I need to just… be here, or is there comforting involved?”

Veronica shrugs half-heartedly. “Whatever you want.”

“Fuck what _I_ want. This is about what helps _you_.”

Veronica chews on her lip, deciding on her next move like she and Heather are playing chess, like this is a competition. Then, she pulls the curtains and locks Heather’s bedroom door.

Chandler really, _really_ wants to ask what Veronica’s planning, if her way of chilling out is so terrible that it has to be hidden away. On the other hand, her kind-of roommate finally seems to be opening up. Heather doesn’t want to spook her, to mess this up just because she can’t keep her damn mouth shut.

Veronica’s moving closer to her. One stilted step at a time, like she’s just learning to walk. Heather can’t bear this suspense, this not-knowing, so she closes her eyes –

And tries not to stiffen too much when Veronica wraps her arms around her waist and rests her head on Heather’s shoulder.

_Holy shit. Goddamn fucking what the fuck shit goddamn fuck me with a crowbar are you shitting me pierce my clit with a rusty nail is this fucking happening right now?_

Heather mentally steadies herself as she hugs Veronica back. This makes sense, really. How long has Veronica gone without any sort of comforting contact? Well, yeah, there was the holding hands and everything, but that was more for Chandler’s benefit than Veronica’s. This is… this is perfectly heterosexual. Absolutely normal. Nothing to worry about.

…No matter how many different ways she thinks it, Chandler isn’t convinced.

 

There’s two different versions of herself arguing in her head right now, as she rubs Veronica’s back in a way she hopes is soothing. Neither of them are on Heather’s side.

One is berating her for being a coward, a pussy, _no-one’s ever stopped you from getting what you want, why are you pulling your punches now? Do it, do it, or you’re not worthy of your name. Someone might as well take everything you have, since you won’t put up a fight._

_Do it, or you’ll die alone, Heather._

The other voice, that’s the Chandler everyone knows. It’s the embodiment of all the pettiness and blind hatred of high school that she’s spent four years cultivating. It calls her _disgusting, a freak, a dyke - you shouldn’t be loved. Hell, you’re_ not _loved. You’re a concept, Heather, and once you don’t live up to it, the world will dump you like the sick fuck you are. Someone like you doesn’t deserve anyone’s affection, especially not Veronica’s. What makes you think she likes you like_ that _, anyway?_

_If you do it, you’ll die alone, Heather._

 

Veronica sighs into the crook of Heather’s neck, her breath washing over the skin like a warm breeze.

…Okay, the first intrusive voice is right. Kind of. She _is_ weak for this girl, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to listen. She’s _Heather Chandler_. She’s gorgeous, she’s smart, she beat a weird bear to death with a stick and without a drop of fear in her heart. She doesn’t have to do what _anyone_ says.

So, while she’s screaming in her head about how platonic it’s going to be, she presses her lips to Veronica’s forehead.

Time seems to stop for a moment. Veronica doesn’t freeze in shock or pull away, but Heather starts to have second thoughts about her decision. She opens her eyes and tries to move her head back, an attempt to gauge Veronica’s reaction, but a hand shoots up to the base of her neck to hold her in place.

“I’m going to do something,” Veronica murmurs into Heather’s shoulder, “don’t freak out, okay? I just… wanna check.”

“Okay.”

Veronica looks up at her, and Heather can tell she’s holding her breath. The hand on Heather’s back curls its fingers, nails digging lightly into the red blazer.

Then, The Wordsmith closes the distance, and it’s _perfect_.

There’s no hesitation from her partner, no fear, her internal conflict washed away. The Warrior Queen returns the kiss eagerly, a woman starving. The world outside, all that she fears, all that she needs to control, is gone for a blessed moment. It is only the weight of another against her chest and the feel of silk-smooth lips on her own.

The Wordsmith pulls back with a gasp, and a few steadying breaths as she pats herself down, searching.

“Hold on,” she whispers, her voice hoarse, “I have to… you’re sure about this?”

“The point of no return has well and truly passed.”

The Wordsmith swallows, and there’s a small wince of pain.

“What are you doing?”

“This won’t hurt,” is the only reply.

The Queen feels her sleeve hiked up to her elbow, and there’s something cold and sharp – the tip of a pen – pressed against her right forearm. She casts her eyes down, and watches as deep scarlet pigment swirls and seeps into her skin, spreading like water through cracks in the dry ground. The ink blots quickly, forming a tattoo. Sharp, wicked, red.

“You see now, don’t you?” The Wordsmith asks. The Queen looks up. Indeed, there’s that elegant cursive curling around her servant’s arms and neck, and for once it doesn’t disappear when The Queen blinks. She sees. _She sees, she knows_. Something within her recognizes she’s part of it now, no longer an outsider to this wonder.

She traces her index finger along a trail of calligraphy, and The Wordsmith shivers under her touch. A quick kick back with her heel, and The Queen smirks when it finds the foot of her bed.

“It’s a good view,” she purrs, “can we get back to it, now?”

There’s a quick, furtive nod, and they fall together.


	8. What May Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Minor Body Horror and Vaguely Referenced Period-Typical Homophobia.

_Something prickling against her skin as she moves. Murky green-grey, organic, the uneven ground beneath her feet. Moving forward to parts unknown. She puts out a hand to feel the way, but she draws back when brambles nick her palm._

_Her foot finds an obstacle, and there’s a crunch like a breaking bough. She looks down –_

_A leg. Grey skin stretched tight over fragile bone. Bone that’s just been broken. A corpse, stomach torn open, jaw unhinged in a long-forgotten scream, both now filled with leaves and dirt and wilted flowers. Reclaimed by the Hedge of Thorns._

_A noise, keening, almost mocking. A predator, laughing at her recklessness._

_She runs. She doesn’t know where she is headed. Away from here. Barbed branches tear away at her skin like grasping hands. At her clothes, at her hair, not quite long enough to catch and hold her in place._

_Wait. She doesn’t have short hair. This outfit doesn’t belong to her. She’s –_

-

 

Heather awakens. She keeps her eyes shut for a moment longer, collecting herself. There’s no pain, and she can feel the sheets covering her body. A dream, nothing more.

Come to think of it, what’s wrapped around her waist right now? Chandler briefly panics, before her brain kicks into gear, reminding her it’s just Veronica.

Then she starts freaking out again, because it’s _Veronica_.

How far had they gone? Had they already reached the rainbow peak of Gay Mountain? Heather quickly assesses herself – _she’s_ fully clothed, at least, but she doesn’t want to turn over and risk waking her bedmate.

As if on cue, Veronica stirs. She presses her face between Heather’s shoulder blades, humming contentedly, and Heather internally screams.

The question is muffled somewhat, but Chandler can make out “What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Now, see, you keep saying that, but I’m not convinced that’s the case.”

Oh, woe. Tragedy. Heather has been exposed as someone who cares about things. It’s not that she’s ashamed of Veronica. She’s done pretty damn well considering her circumstances – sure, she’s a bit out of date with her slang, but she’d fit in well enough at present-day Westerburg if she kept up her quips. It’s just that society hasn’t changed as much as she thinks it has.

Heather rolls over to cup Veronica’s face, leaning in for a tender kiss. Veronica returns it with a happy little sigh, sounding almost relieved.

“I’m doing this now, because I won’t be able to do it later. Not without serious consequences,” Heather murmurs.

“…Figured.” Another sigh, this one dull and disappointed. Heather strokes back the dark hair framing Veronica’s face. “Stay a little longer, then?”

“Of course, _ma choupette_.”

 

-

 

Chandler goes about her weekend as she would normally – she plays croquet with the other Heathers, she goes to the mall, she spends time at home with Veronica. All the while, she struggles to balance what she knows to be true and what her senses tell her.

It’s like her eyes are the lens of Duke’s camera, and Veronica’s just turned the little ring that changes the focus. Some things seem sharper, more real than before, while others have an almost painting-like quality to them, their colors soft and smudged together. McNamara’s backyard is like something out of Wonderland – the plants are lush and verdant, yet somehow planned and patterned, geometric shapes in the leaves and grass. Heather steps over the flowerbeds instead of through them as she normally would, because she silently swears the blood-red blooms are dripping.

Why is McNamara looking at her like that?

 

-

 

_Thorns scratch, gently now, one thousand needles jabbing into her as she tries to keep herself from trembling too much. Hiding, prey amidst the forest. Her heart flutters in her chest as she hears the pounding of hooves and the baying of hounds draw closer._

_The heat of pain stings her upper arm. She dare not move it, lest the rustling of the Hedge betray her, but the shot of hot fear hits like lightning at the thought she may be bleeding. She might not smell it, but the hounds would. They draw closer still, the sounds and the terror overwhelming-_

_The light between the branches flickers like a dying fire as The Wild Hunt thunders by. When the sound fades to silence, only then does she breathe out a nervous giggle.  
_

_No. That doesn’t sound right. The pitch is too low for this to be_ her _laughter.  
_

 

-

 

The mall is a different beast entirely. Standing outside isn’t so bad. Sure, it’s more ‘ivory tower’ than ‘blocky monument to capitalism’ than last time, but that’s something she can cope with. The throngs of people inside, and the emotions the radiate from them, that’s what gets her.

A couple argues while their snot-nosed child screams its tiny head off, and Heather tastes hot and bitter anger on her tongue. A bunch of middle schoolers ogle a window display in the electronics store, practically drooling at the sight of the video game system proudly placed on the pedestal, and the candy-sweet scent of want wafts under Heather’s nose. It’s not overwhelming, but it is bizarre to actually _feel_ it, rather than just knowing the cues.

More bizarre is how easily she accepts it.

 

-

 

_Cold. Dark. Force pushing against her. Against all of her._

_Water. Immersed in murky water, but she isn’t drowning. She feels the shift of pressure, and the dark shape of something massive swimming past her._

_She struggles. Searching, spinning, working out which way is up. Another movement in the water, from the opposite side this time. More and more of them, rolling over her like waves. Coming for her._

_Finally, she sees the faint glimmer of light above her. She kicks hard, fast, as the shapes around her become clearer. Scales, spines, tentacles. She claws upwards like she’s digging herself out of her own grave, though it’s a slow process with only one arm._

_One arm?_

 

-

 

“You alright?”

Heather looks up from her careful examination of her tattoo. It’s a balancing act – if she looks too closely at it, it disappears. Veronica’s watching her like a bodyguard observes their charge.

“It’s okay,” Heather replies, “it’s just… a lot to take in.”

Veronica closes _The Bell Jar_ , tilting her head in thought. “Yeah. I can see that. Had worse going through that Hedge, so I guess all the weird stuff I saw wasn’t as bad. When you think you’re in Nowheresville, but you’re _really_ in Crazytown, it’d be a bit of a shock when the wool gets pulled off your eyes.”

“Hmm.”

The more Chandler thinks about it, the less she’s worried. Once you got over the initial shock of seeing a gem-encrusted version of Michelangelo’s David wearing a band t-shirt crossing the street in front of you, you kind of accepted it. David likes Mötley Crüe. That’s how it is, it’s just that Heather has never noticed before.

Fuck. She’s completely insane, isn't she?

She’s not sure when Veronica walked over to the bed and sat down next to her, but here she is, head in Heather’s lap. “You look tired.”

“Just a few nightmares, no biggie.”

Veronica frowns, too much concern etched into her face, like bad dreams aren't a normal occurrence.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

-

 

_Lying on soft, mossy ground, the crackle of fallen leaves beneath her. Looking up at the network of vines and branches, the barest hint of stars behind them. Gentle motes of light rise up as she watches – fireflies, perhaps._

_“I was wondering who it was.”_

_His voice is a bonfire in its prime, hissing and crackling. She turns her head to meet his eyes, only to find he has none. Just empty holes in his terracotta skin for the flame to flicker in._

_“She let you in, huh? I was wondering if she’d gotten around to it, after what you pulled at the masquerade.” JD smirks, looking her over. “Of course. Her_ guardian _.”_

_“Fuck off.”_

_It’s marred by a feral sort of growl, but its undeniably Heather’s own voice. An almost welcome change._

_“I mean no disrespect, I promise you. No doubt you’re a powerful ally for anyone to have. Besides, I owe the Muse a small favor after she saved me from your wrath.”_

_“You owe Heather a favor. Fine. Give it to_ her _, then, and leave me alone.”_

 _“Does that ever get confusing? I suppose not. Not for you, at least. Sure, you’re both named Heather, you both command with your looks. But she’s all delicate and feathery, when_ you’re _-”_

 

-

 

The phone rings. Groaning, Heather fumbles for the bedside table, finding the block of plastic she’s searching for and pulling it to her ear.

“Hello?”

“God, Heather, in bed already?”

Oh. Duke. “Shut up, Heather,” Chandler mumbles, “It’s midnight on a Sunday. What do you want?”

“Jason Dean is gonna be back tomorrow. We’re going to have to deal with him. How do you plan on doing it?”

Well, sticking his head in the toilet is out. Kurt and Ram wouldn’t go near the guy. No one would, except the idiots who think he’s gonna protect them from the big bad jocks. Notoriety is his main weapon now.

“All he’s got going for him is that mysterious bad boy aura. Take that away, and he’s just a run-of-the-mill punk. Ask Dennis. See if you can find some dirt on him. Until then, _treat him_ like he’s dirt. Like he’s nothing.”

Duke has been silent for quite some time. Chandler can hear her breathing, though. She’s not asleep.

“You know that Remington girl?” Duke blurts out, “Winona, or whatever she calls herself?”

“ _Wynne_ , yes.”

“…You know she’s a vampire, right? From 1956. I’ll show you the yearbook she’s in, Her _real_ name is Veron-”

Heather hangs up.

She doesn’t dream again that night.

 

-

 

She examines McNamara closely when the girl in yellow hops into the passenger seat Monday morning. JD has said feathery, delicate – she’s lithe, certainly, but she doesn’t look fragile. A cheerleader can’t be, if she’s any good, and McNamara _is_ good.

Anywho, if she were a ‘Muse’, like he told Chandler she was, Heather would know. She’d see. Wouldn't she?

“To catch you up, Heather and I had a chat last night. Jason Dean ain’t shit, no matter how many blanks he fires at the football team, so don’t act like he is. She’ll do some digging on his background to see if he’s got a dark secret we can exploit.”

“Got it.”

“Oh, and if Heather says anything about vampires, ignore her. I dunno how she got it into her head that Wynne’s a member of the living dead, but she did.”

McNamara snorts. She knows that to be false.

The question remains how much she _doesn’t_ know.

 

-

 

Heather notices the cool, numbing sensation of fear drifting up the corridor before she even sees the Desperado. She’s getting used to it now, and she's more upset that the feeling of awe is sucked away from her in his presence.

Her usual bodyguards are nowhere in sight. Figures. They’re always there when Chandler doesn’t want them, and never when she does. And McNamara wonders why she’s always so mean to Kurt.

“I hear you’re the one to talk to if you want justice.”

His voice is reedy, a little rasping. Different than last night, but that’s to be expected. This isn’t the real one, after all.

Chandler scowls. “You’re not getting an appeal that easily, Dean. Not when you share your father’s appetite for destruction.”

(That’s the result of her own sort of research. Mostly because Veronica insisted that she stay on the channel after Big Bud pushed the plunger and the screen blew up. She was not happy when she found out that’s where the ad ended.)

That seemed to touch a deadened nerve. “Just like the real justice system, I suppose. The innocent get punished and the guilty get away.”

“You are delusional if you think you’re the victim here. Is there any other reason for bothering me, or is it just asking for a forgiveness you haven’t earned?”

“And what will you make me do? Some meaningless errand for your followers?”

“I’m not _making_ you do _anything_. If you want to give back to the Westerburg community, be my guest, they certainly deserve it. Christ, you were a lot more agreeable at the party you wormed your way into.”

He doesn’t respond, but the blankness in his eyes takes on a different quality – confusion, rather than plain old soullessness.

Chandler doesn’t turn all the way, but she does tilt her head back slightly to notify Duke it’s almost her moment. “Heather, you remember seeing him at Keith’s masquerade, right?”

“I remember,” McNamara responds with a confidence she usually lacks.

Wait. What?

“It was definitely this kid, wasn’t it?”

“Sure was.”

Jason nods, smirking slightly as he wanders off, like he’s got the upper hand. Like that wasn’t exactly what Heather was planning all along.

Chandler turns to face McNamara, questioning. Duke knows to just agree with whatever Heather says, despite her ignorance of JD’s presence until the very end of the night. The head cheerleader was so insistent that ““Jack”” was a different person back then, but now she almost seems convinced by her own lies.

“Heather, do you remember anything else about that Saturday?”

McNamara shrugs. “It ended badly.”

“You mean you don’t remember when Kurt took that weird-shaped vase and torpedoed it into the pool?”

“Oh, well, _yeah_ ,” McNamara scoffs, “just the other thing was more important.”

Duke inhales, about to speak, but Chandler cuts her off with a nonverbal ‘shut up’. Heather knows as well as she does that there were no vases for the quarterback to throw and no pool for it to land in.

Shit.


	9. Musings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Body Horror, Violence.

Heather has no-one to blame but herself, really.

There’s two other people at this table. One of them is Heather Duke making snide comments about the basketball team, who still hasn’t figured out whether or not Chandler remembers their midnight conversation and may not want to know the answer. While she may not be entirely right, she’s still too close for comfort. Chandler would keep her word to guard Veronica, of course, Duke doesn’t even know that pact exists, let alone that she’s a part of it. What’s stopping her from outing them both?

The second subject, chatting and laughing, is Heather McNamara. Sort of. It’s not really her, Heather thinks, if the fact she doesn’t remember anything about the masquerade is any indication. It’s possible her memories were… altered, somehow (and if that’s the case, Heather has a prime suspect), but the number of fairy escapees are around town means it could be kidnapping-related.

What’s happened is they’ve created a three-way war: Chandler is against Duke for sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, Duke is against Chandler for protecting Veronica, and both are against McNamara for her serious, and suspicious, memory failures. The unspoken promise between them is tested, and they must present a united front to scare off any pretenders.

This must be nipped in the bud.

 

-

 

Veronica seems to _love_ Heather’s bed. Admittedly, it is pretty sweet – silk sheets, feather pillows, the shell-shaped bedhead, but Veronica says her favorite thing is that it’s usually where Heather is.

Flatterer.

Both of them are spread out on it tonight, Chandler reading a magazine while Veronica lies sideways, her head resting on Chandler’s chest.

“Why did you tell her about your yearbook?”

“Hmm?”

Chandler puts aside her magazine. “Heather Duke – Green Heather. Why’d you bother?”

“Because she would probably find out anyway, and it’s one less choice she gets to make.”

“You’ve given her a trail. I’ve got a stake in you, and if she thinks exposing you will hurt me, she might just go through with it.”

“ _In exchange,_ Heather _will shield me from those who mean me harm to the best of her ability, so long as my work is not done,_ ” Veronica recites, smiling. “She’d only be hurting herself.”

Oh. Right. Well, Duke is certainly capable of shutting up. “How does that work, anyway?”

“Depends what you swear on. Since I swore on my name, the punishment for breaking the promise would be the loss of identity. If you break it, and I’m positive you won’t, the same thing applies to you.”

“Oh-kay, but who’s the judge of that? Am I gonna have to give Heather a lobotomy if she thinks about calling the FBI on you?”

“…Okay, I’m touched you’d go that far for me, but _holy shit_.” Veronica holds up a finger. “A story, if you will.”

“Always.”

 

-

 

The story is this -

The Lords and Ladies of Tír na nÓg cannot create. They steal their ideas and identities from the world of men, our stories of beautiful fae creatures, noble and wise, or the fearsome goblins and monsters that roam at night. Other times, they are merely emulators of a certain element of humanity – a parent or lover, or personifications of things like greed or knowledge.

For those who claim art as their domain, those who inspire are invaluable to them.

The subject of our tale had many keepers of different tastes. Painters and sculptors, musicians and performers, all relying on her for the spark of imagination they so sorely lacked. Her latest keeper kept her in a gilded cage, taking her down from the chain to place the prison on Its desk when It had need of her.

The Muse knew three things about her keeper, a horrid amalgamation of bloodshot eyes and bony arms. Like many of Its kind, It dismissed humanity as weak and frail. It was often consumed with desire, and often held onto that fervor until Its wish was granted. Lastly, It could not stand ruined implements – a paintbrush with balding bristles, a snapped chisel, a broken lute string. The sound or sight of them would weaken It, would break down Its control.

“I know of an artform I have not seen in my travels. A style no Lady or Gentleman or Otherwise in this realm has yet to succeed in creating. You are the most dedicated, the most versatile artist I have encountered in all this time. It is possible you could do it justice,” she told It.

“I could, I could,” It replied, eager to prove Itself. “I have countless eyes to study for flaws, countless fingers to mold and mark. Tell me of this form, and I shall make it.”

The Muse was an old hand at leading someone on, a talent she studied in her mortal life. “I am still unsure. This is a task beyond so many others, so more specialized than you. I have only ever seen it performed by mortals.”

“And I am beyond them! Only two hands, two eyes! I am ancient and eternal, a million in one!”

“So you are. Well then, swear on your proficiency, your potency, that you shall complete the work I describe. Should you fail, I shall leave this realm, this golden cage unlocked for me to fly free, and you must find another to provide your inspiration.”

Unknowing of the medium, the keeper agreed to these terms. Fate watched the pledge, and bound them within its weave, as it does with all beings of such magic.

“The work I speak of is a kind of modern art,” The Muse explained, “new and exciting. It is not of aesthetic, of simple craft. It is what an object in that state represents. It presents the dedication of a creator by showing the state of his used tools, worn down by effort. Show me a sculpture of these to demonstrate the virtues you champion.”

Eyes blinked. Fingers drummed on the desk as The Muse’s keeper digested the words.

When It realized what the task entailed, It let out an unholy screech of rage.

“I shall do no such thing, you wicked creature!” It shrieked, Its voice the sound of thousands of nails scraping down a chalkboard, “This modern art was a ruse! The deal is not valid! You shall be kept here forever and onwards, to suffer and wither and rot!”

Fate, of course, did not accept this claim. As It finished Its tirade, Its eyes went milky-white, Its fingers turned black and fell away, and the cage door swung open. The contract was broken, and retribution was meted out.

The Muse fled from the destruction she had caused, and the crashing and screaming of her captor echoed in her ears as she found her way home.

 

-

 

“Not about you this time,” Heather notes.

Veronica shrugs. “I heard it, thought it was pretty good. A few embellishments, artistic license and all, but mostly the same.”

“It’s just nice to hear you’re branching out.”

So, the nebulous force of fate was going to be the one to make sure Duke kept the word she never had a say in. Chandler never believed in fate – boys used it as an excuse to try and stick their hands up her skirt, claiming it was some divine right of theirs since they were lucky enough to cross paths with her. Well, she never believed in fairies, either.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

“Oh, y’know. Fate. How it’s terrible.”

“Well, it can’t be all bad, can it? It brought us together.”

Heather hums. “As long as Fate accepts its status as a vicious two-faced prick, I’ll consider believing in it. Shall we take advantage of this moment it gave us?”

Veronica grins as Heather leans down.

 

-

_Mirrors. Thousands upon thousands of reflections surrounding her, but she can’t make out herself in any of them. Only a flash of red, or a glimpse of two curved horns._

_Horns?_

_“Took you long enough.”_

_It echoes. Of course it does. What are reflections but echoes you can see?_

_She turns to face the voice._

_Feathers. Tiny little things, iridescent, dotting her face and arms like freckles, weaving into the edges of her twisted, tousled hair. Big brown eyes and pointed ears, carrying herself with a dancer’s grace never noticed in her waking hours._

_“Veronica hasn’t seen me since that night, has she?” Heather McNamara says flatly, “that miserable evening, was one of the few trips I've had out."  
_

_“Holy shit. I’m a horrible friend,” Chandler breathes._

_“Indeed.” McNamara kindly waits for Chandler to regain her composure before continuing. “My changeling doesn’t seem open to the idea of sharing the work of being me. She pushed me, when I started arguing with her, and I fell backwards into a mirror. Not through it. Into it. Reflections can’t do anything of their own accord, so I’m stuck here until she chooses to let me out, but she can just shove me back in again when I'm no longer needed.”_

_Chandler raises her lip in a snarl, incensed by the show of weakness. “And you let it happen?”_

_“I’m tired of fighting, Heather. I’m tired of tearing myself apart. Maybe my place is in a prison. At least no-one can hurt me in here.”_

_“God, I have to do_ everything _!” Chandler roars. “Goddammit, Heather, you’re a_ Heather _! You’re head cheerleader! Take responsibility for yourself! You’re better than that fake bitch, and I’ll drag you out of that mirror myself to get you to prove it!”_

_“…I’m head cheerleader? I got the part?”_

_“Uh, no doy! How long have you been stuck in there?”_

_“At least six months, I think.” McNamara ponders this new information. “I’m in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I don’t know how to get myself out, but I suppose you c n talk to Jack or so eth n .”_

_Everything begins to fade before Chandler’s eyes. Why do dreams never last as long as you want them to?_

_“Wh re i  he?”_

_“ e h ngs ou  at t e S   p  S a    h c  ”_

 

-

 

It hurts to open her eyes. Silver light shines through the window, bleaching the clothes strewn around the room white and grey.

Veronica is once again resting her head on Heather’s sternum, seemingly at peace. Heather uses gentle lips and careful fingers to wake her, and she groans as the stirs from her slumber.

“Heather…?”

“Sorry, sweet,” Heather murmurs, pressing a kiss to Veronica’s forehead, “but I need your help with something.”

 

-

 

The Snappy Snack Shack is quiet at this time of morning. The Snappy Snack Shack is quiet at any time of the day, actually. Four people (including the cashier, a tiny set of horns peeking out from under his corporate-mandated cap) is practically peak hour traffic for this place, but somehow it remains in business. Must be magic.

“I never thought,” Veronica keeps muttering, “I thought it was sunlight. That it hides it somehow, or moonlight makes it clear. What an idiot I was. The sun? God.”

“We meet again.” JD smirks at Heather as he takes a sip of his slushie, the fire in his eye sockets alive with interest. “You are a woman of many woes, from what my sources tell me. The Muse says you seek to solve them, yet the Wordsmith says they bombard you from all sides.”

“Well, that’s not entirely fair. I also make them,” Chandler replies, “question: how do you not end up killing yourself by drinking? Wouldn’t that extinguish you?”

“I’m not sure. Bit of a gamble the first time I got thirsty after this happened, let me tell you.”

Veronica squeezes Heather’s arm through her coat. “You owe Heather McNamara, The Muse, a favor, don’t you?”

“Correct.”

“What do you know about changelings?”

JD sucks at the straw as he thinks. “Well, they’re not always a perfect duplicate. Most of them are missing something that the Gentry also lack – creativity, empathy, morality. They’re also very good at keeping the person they were made to copy at bay. Why this line of questioning?”

“Heather’s stuck in a mirror ‘cause her changeling’s a bitch, and you know more than either of us,” Heather answers.

The cashier chimes in. “That’s what happens when you don’t kill yourself.”

Veronica splutters, and Chandler screams some choice words back at him.

“I mean the changeling! If you can take back what’s yours, then you take it!”

“Nice input, Pan,” JD retorts, “now stay in your own damn lane.”

“Eat shit, Jack!”

Heather sighs in frustration. “You in or out, Lantern Boy?”

“In, provided you never call me that again.” JD grins with titanium teeth. “I assume you have a plan?”

 

-

 

As usual, Chandler gives McNamara a ride to school. The imposter is weirdly quiet today, refusing to meet her chauffeur’s gaze. Cold, tingling dread cools the inside of the car by about five degrees.

“Problem?” Chandler asks.

“No. Well, yes. Um. Heather, how much do you know about fairies?”

“Don’t believe in ‘em,” Heather responds, “nasty little bastards in the old bedtime stories, though. Why?”

“…I’m… Like, I think I’m dealing with a nasty one.”

Chandler scoffs. “Yeah? What’s its problem?”

“It keeps saying its me.” The Fake McNamara takes a deep, shuddering breath. “That can’t be right, though. Like, I’ve been me as long as I remember. She’s also part bird, and I’m not, I mean, that’s a hint, right?”

“Uh-huh.” God, Chandler’s a bad friend. Bad to both Heather McNamaras.

“It tells me I’m not real. How can that be? I’m right here. But, I doubt myself sometimes. I let it pretend when I don’t want the responsibility, and it almost feels… good.”

“We all need a break, but we don’t always get it. Why don’t you let her pretend more often?”

Heather sees Fake McNamara flinch out of the corner of her eye. “She wants my life. If I give her an inch, what’s to stop her from taking a mile?”

Chandler remains silent. Veronica and JD, armed with Chandler’s copy of the McNamaras’ spare key, will be returning the other McNamara to this side of the looking glass soon enough. Then the answer would reveal itself.

“Why are you letting me talk about fairies, anyway? You always hated it when Heather talks about witches and vampires and stuff.”

Chandler smiles blandly. “I assume you’ve finally learned what an analogy is. Have you?”

 

-

 

The photos that fall when Heather opens her locker are caught before they hit the ground, and thank god for that. They show the events of last night in all their life-ending glory – Heather on top of Veronica, Heather in the crook of Veronica’s neck, Heather between Veronica’s legs – setting off all of the alarms in Chandler’s head.

More interestingly (and the fact these exist is pretty goddamn interesting to begin with), just holding them feels _amazing_. It’s every emotion in that moment condensed into a little square of paper, the overpowering ecstasy offset by a hint of bitter spite from the photographer. The moment was beautiful, and evidence reflects that.

The problem is that there’s evidence.

Heather smiles ( _she can’t be afraid, they’d be on her in a second if she looks afraid_ ), tucks the photos away, and quickly checks for a likely culprit.

No-one looks at her for very long. At least, no longer than usual. The air tastes the same as it usually does, no spikes of sour malice or the sweetness of glee.

Duke catches up with her, her textbooks on one arm and a glint in her eye.

Wait. Did she…

Well, there’s anticipation there, and resentment, but that’s not unusual. Heather needs more information before she shows her hand.

“You ready to go?”

“Not everyone is eager as you, nerd. Give me a minute.” Chandler pauses. “Where’s Heather?”

“Dunno. With Kurt, I guess. Why did you conjure up that thing about – oh, well, there you are.”

Heather McNamara – the real one – glides through the crowded hall like a boat through water, her face unnaturally calm. She's wearing a different outfit than her clone, of course, and it would look fine if not for the occasional patch of dried blood. There's something shining in her hand, catching the light, but Chandler can't make out what it is.

McNamara approaches her friends, as if this were any other day and they’re preparing for class, ignoring Duke’s growing concern and Chandler’s clenched jaw.

“Hello, Heather. Heather. Can you tell me where Heather is, please?”

Duke stammers incoherently, and Chandler puts up a hand to silence her.

“I won’t. Not unless you swear to me you’re not going to hurt her.”

McNamara giggles, light, melodious. “I see what you’re trying to do. It won’t end well for you, Heather. Would it make you feel better if I did?”

“Admittedly not by much, but yeah. And… give me whatever that is,” Chandler gestures at her clenched fist, “if you mean what you say, you won’t need it.”

As ordered, McNamara opens her hand. Amidst the mess of blood, the deep gashes she seems oblivious to, is a jagged shard of silver glass.

So they broke the mirror to get her out. Fine. That doesn't explain why she - oh.

Wait. No. Maybe.

“How am I supposed to take responsibility for myself, then? How do I prove I'm better?” McNamara asks, genuinely confused ( _how long does one have to be isolated to forget murder should not be the first option?!_ )

“Non-violently, please. Just...go to the hospital. Get that sorted, and you can talk it out later. Okay?"

McNamara thinks over this, then nods ever-so-slightly. “I suppose I owe you that much. The prison is gone, now. It can't be used against me."

She hands over her makeshift weapon, and Chandler habitually passes it back to Duke. Duke doesn't throw it away, she just gapes at it, like she's been given a severed head. McNamara leaves with as much grace as she arrived with, and most people are too busy staring at her face to notice her bleeding hand.

“Four Heathers,” Duke mutters to herself, “Four. Too many.” The perfect distraction presents itself a few hours too late.

"Heather? I think I'm done for the day. Dump the textbooks, we're going to the mall."

"What about Heather?"

Chandler glances down at the bloodied mirror. "I'll come back for her."


	10. Sweeter Than Honey, Stronger Than Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Brief reference to self-harm, Body Horror.

Okay, _maybe_ she bit off more than she could chew.

 _Maybe_ she could have talked it out with them, Heather broods as she stirs her drink. She’s their leader. Both Heather McNamaras remember that, surely, even the one who got… subbed out, she supposes. That’s the best way to put it – on the metaphorical bench, waiting for the person (?) living her life to either get tired or die.

But no. Chandler _didn’t_ secure the loyalty of the wild card in the Heathers’ three-way squabble. She doubted her decision, her belief that either McNamara was unworthy of their place (and she had to face it, _both_ of them are a bit… out there). She’s letting the problem fester further. She drinks her Diet Coke in shame, while Heather Duke keeps fucking _staring_ at her from across the table.

“Did you know?” she asks.

“Know _what_?”

Duke shrinks only slightly at Chandler's snarl. Chandler isn’t sure whether or not that’s a good sign. “That Heather… isn’t well.”

Chandler doesn’t answer immediately, twirling her straw around the almost-empty cup, listening to it scratch against the waxed paper. Depressingly, Duke is most likely the sanest person here, apart from her assumption that Veronica’s a vampire. The fact that she spent two straight weeks looking for what she knows she saw before means that she’s more determined than Chandler had thought.

“No. No, and I don’t plan on telling anyone, either. It’d reflect badly on us. That’s the whole reason you still bother to hang around, isn’t it? So you can keep above the ravenous hordes of high school kids?”

“It wasn’t at first,” Duke replies, “it is now.”

Why does that hurt to hear? They both know that Duke would dump Chandler if she knew she could survive on her own, that all the secrets Heather had agreed to keep for all their sakes wouldn’t sink that ship as soon as it left the docks. Chandler _had_ to keep Duke in line. If she didn’t, then where would she be? Second place. Heather couldn’t accept that. She couldn’t bear to be anything less than what she deserved.

The thing is, Duke isn’t satisfied with second place. Maybe if Heather changed that…

Chandler tries to smile honestly. She’s not quite sure if she’s successful. “You know what? Let’s finish up here. We’ll go back to my place, and you can have some one-on-one time with Wynne while I get Heather.”

“Okay.”

No questions as to why Veronica is at Heather’s house. Interesting.

Chandler lets her smile turn into a rictus grin as she turns away.

 

-

 

They get to the second floor of the house before Chandler says anything. She can practically hear Duke ready and waiting to learn everything, know everything – but there’s still a part of her suspecting this is a trap. The feeling is cold and sharp, but not unpleasant. Like mint.

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Heather makes sure to meet Duke’s gaze when she says this, dipping her head to maintain eye contact every time Duke looks away, “You get to ask her your questions. What happened, what she can do, all that shit. But, and I want to make this clear, you’re not going to force any answers out of her. If you breathe a word of this to anyone not in the know, _you will regret it_. Do you accept these terms?”

“…Yes?”

As she says it, Chandler’s right arm goes cold for a moment, before slowly returning to a normal temperature. She doesn’t react to this, of course – she’s used to sudden sensations she doesn’t expect. It’s something to worry about later.

 

Veronica is in her guest room, hands on her crossed legs, fingertips perched on top of her knees. There’s a book on her lap that tumbles onto the carpet when Heather knocks on the half-open door.

“Heather,” the greeting is clipped, sharp, as she nods at Duke. She shoves a hand into the pocket of her blue blazer, bringing out a tightly clenched fist.

Against her will, Heather’s mind is thrown back to earlier in the day – McNamara, poor little Heather McNamara, dreamy and half-there as she shows Chandler the deep gashes she made in her palm, the mirror shard red, too red for her.

But Veronica’s not like that. Not her Veronica. She opens her hand, and all that’s there is the spare key.

The Wordsmith runs a hand through her hair. “Um, Yellow Heather was kinda… gone when we last spoke. Did you see her at all?”

“I did. She’s alright now,” Heather lies, taking the key back, “in fact, I’m just going to head out and get her. Heather here is kind of curious about that thing with the yearbook. Mind filling her in?”

“Uh…”

Duke rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to spill the whole story, and I’m not allowed to tell anyone if you do. Heather made me promise.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that’s okay. Maybe not in here, though. It’s kind of a mess,” says Veronica, and Chandler relaxes a little. Her fence is made of iron. They’ll be fine here.

“I won’t be long,” Heather coos, and hopes that will hold true.

 

-

 

She goes with the safer option.

The changeling, as far as Heather knows, isn’t aware that anything strange has happened. Yeah, maybe a couple of people stopped to wonder where Chandler was, or why her outfit was different, but they wouldn’t say anything to her. Right?

She guesses that they didn’t. As Heather pulls into the parking lot, she sees McNamara in her cheerleading uniform, smiling and giving a little wave.

“Missed you in eighth period,” she says as she climbs into the passenger seat, “was there something wrong?”

“Just needed to clear my head. Mr. Drake’s too busy listening to the sound of his own voice to notice, anyway.”

“For sure,” McNamara giggles. God, this girl is making Chandler question her life choices. She wonders if all the kind-of-bad stuff she’s done over the years makes her better or worse than a normal person who’s done one terrible thing.

Then…

“Heather?”

“Hmm?”

“Um. I asked Kurt if he threw anything into the pool. Like, at that party. He said he didn’t.”

“Is that so?”

“So, you lied to me.”

Chandler stays silent.

“Why?”

“I wanted to check something.”

Fear rolls off of McNamara in waves. “Where are we going?”

“My house. I swear on my life nothing’s going to hurt you.” Her arm tingles again. She needs to check that out.

“…Heather, I still don’t get analogies.”

“I thought as much. Look, Heather Duke’s there interviewing Wynne. We’ll have a movie night, or something, pretend everything’s okay.”

“Why is Wynne at your house?”

“That’s where she lives, Heather.”

“…Oh.”

Chandler isn’t sure why, but McNamara seems happier with that knowledge.

 

-

 

Duke grins when Chandler enters, and Heather struggles to remember a time when that smile wasn’t tainted by worry or malice. Maybe when they first met, back in middle school, before Chandler forced her to grow up. It has made a triumphant return now, and Heather never realized how well it fits her face.

“Look what Veronica made for me.”

Duke holds out the slip of paper, and Chandler takes it between thumb and forefinger. There’s a date at the top. As she looks, both the time listed and the writing below switches and changes.

_To whom it may concern, please be advisHeather Duke has permission to leavdue to unforeseen circumstances she will not be able to completan explained absence of two days, untiHall Pass for Heather Duke for tasks related to the Yearboohank you for your understanding…_

But if she squints, It’s just one sentence in Veronica’s characteristic scrawl.

_Heather Duke gets out of jail free._

“A good choice,” Chandler concedes.

“I know, right? I have to say what it’s supposed to be before I use it, of course, but look at it! It’s _perfect_!”

The smile falters as McNamara enters, dragging her bag behind her. It disappears completely when the changeling holds up a hand in greeting. There’s no stitches, no evidence of the wound Duke knows should be there.

“Not now, Heather,” Chandler says quietly, “why don’t you ask her some questions? Same deal – can’t force an answer, no talking to anyone else. Can you work with that?”

“Of course.”

What the _fuck_ is going on with Heather’s arm?

“Cool. Once you’re done, come up and pick a movie.”

 

She meets Veronica at the top of the stairs. Heather is careful to listen for the sound of voices below before she wraps her arms around her girlfriend’s waist.

“She wasn’t too mean to you, was she?”

“Not at all,” Veronica hums into Heather’s neck, “I think she was trying to act like you at the start, but she dropped it eventually.”

“Good. Good. How much did you tell her? So I can get my story straight.”

“Not undead, got kidnapped by fairies, made a deal with you, I make things out of words. Then she got distracted, and got me to forge her a hall pass.”

“That’s all?”

Veronica thinks for a moment. “She wanted to… ask something else. I think she forgot what it was, but it was there.”

Heather’s not sure why she had any doubts. Duke has the means and the motive to try and take down Chandler. Veronica, too, she supposes – an intruder, trying to take her spot on the ladder of popularity. She isn’t sure if that's still the case, but Duke can’t get off scot-free. Not for this.

She’ll _burn_ for this.

“They’re downstairs. Tell them if you have any preferences for movie night.”

“Movie night?” Veronica half-smiles. “You know I’m happy with pretty much anything after 1960. Except _Grease_. Fuck _Grease_.”

Heather laughs. It’s practiced.

 

-

 

She says she goes up to her room to ‘freshen up’. Duke and McNamara would know this to be a lie, but Veronica wouldn’t. Heather hasn’t felt the need to tell such an obvious untruth since she met her – Veronica had been too nervous (or too used to chaos) to question why anything happened the way it did. She’s already been too vulnerable around her, she can’t really let her in and let the gaps in her armor grow.

Duke’s already taken advantage of those.

Heather pulls up her sleeve and runs her hand over bare skin. It doesn’t look any different, but it feels cool to the touch, numb under her fingers. The back of her forearm is hard, sleek and polished, yet uneven. Like scales are covering it in place of her blazer.

She takes a breath in, then out. It’s easy to solve. Just don’t make any promises. That’s the trigger. So long as she doesn’t have to put her hand over her heart in the next few weeks, she’s fine. Everything will go back to normal. All she has to do today is sit down with her… friends… and watch a movie. Totally ordinary, no vows of service required.

She gives herself a once-over in the mirror, tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear, checks her lipstick...

…And watches as Jason Dean – or rather, his changeling –  climbs through the window.

She doesn’t react. She doesn’t even move, frozen in – not fear, no. Heather Chandler is not afraid. Frozen in _anticipation_ , like a predator ready to pounce. Jason moves through the glass like he’s walking through a waterfall, leaving it unmarked.

“Dreadful etiquette, I know,” he chuckles, “You really shouldn’t leave your side gate open. Anything could wander in here.”

Chandler _didn’t_ leave the gate open. She never uses it, since she takes her car everywhere. Someone must have opened it.                              

“Jesse James. _Quelle surprise_.” Heather rolls her eyes, turning to face him. “What do you want, _Dean_?”

Cold eyes grow colder. “I was hoping to catch you between classes, but you were notably absent today. We have matters to discuss.”

“Yeah, yeah, drop the ominous bullshit. Tell me what your deal is, or I throw you out the window.”

Jason shrugs, shakes his head like _she’s_ the weird one, and pulls something out of the pocket of his trenchcoat.

A roll of film.

Heather leans casually against the vanity, wearing a carefully crafted expression of intrigue. In fact, she’s feeling for the frying pan she never bothered to take back to the kitchen.

“Didn’t think you were much of a photographer,” she remarks.

“I have to fill my time somehow, don’t I?” he snickers again. Heather hates that noise, that rasping, reedy sound. Hollow, just like him. “Well, when society won’t raise a finger to help you, you force its hand.”

“Blackmail’s a crime, Dean.”

“Like you're so innocent."

Heather’s gaze doesn’t waver as her fingers find the edge of the pan. A small thing, but enough to stun if necessary.

“I assume you're not stopping with smug satisfaction. What’s your price?”

Jason unrolls the film, barely holding onto it, like he’s presenting a delicate sash. “There’s another ‘girl’ in these.”

“Sure is.”

“I want _her_.”

Heather drums her visible hand on the vanity, as if she’s seriously thinking it over. She’s done this many times before, when a slew of boys had tried to ask her to the junior prom. She had adored crushing their hope, one after the other. Heather knew she would have been just a trophy, an empty thing, and it was so satisfying to see them think they’d done it, only to rip it from their grasping, greasy hands.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Jason goes on, “You keep the memory of the moment, the only copies, and the one person who could bring it all down is gone for good. The indomitable queen. Not a single weakness. If you refuse, well. I needn’t say how that will go, in a hick town like this.”

“Oh, don’t get me _started_ on Sherwood.”

Heather doesn’t give him the opportunity to do so. In one quick movement, she hurls the frying pan at his head.

Jason _screams_.

It’s not human. It’s the scrape of metal on metal, the screech of tires on a braking car. The sound of desperate, fearful struggle, accompanied by sizzle of iron against his skin.

Heather doesn’t hesitate. She dives for what remains of the negatives, parts of the film melted from contact, and hides them amongst her moisturizers and makeup. When she sees he still hasn’t recovered, then she goes for the frying pan.

Thumping footsteps from outside the room, then the door slams open.

“Heather?!”

Three looks of horror, flicking between Jason, part of his face bubbling like wax, and Chandler, standing over him.

“The window. Get the window.”

Too many words, apparently. Before any of them can act, Jason has a hand around her ankle, and he pulls. Her balance isn’t great to begin with, given her heels, but she manages to angle the frying pan down as she falls. Another blow, another burn, another shriek of agony.

Then, almost like he’s dissolved into the floor beneath her, Jason is gone.

She holds still for a moment longer, waiting for movement, a hit against her, that _goddamn laugh_. Nothing. Nothing except shallow breathing and ice-cold fear. That’s almost worse.

“The side gate off the path,” says Heather, and she’s almost shocked how calm and detached it sounds, “it wasn’t closed. Someone let him in.”

She lets this sink in for a moment, before she rises, unfurling, graceful even now.

“Maybe you needed the reminder there are worse things than me,” she growls. “Heather. Heather. You swear to me right now there’ll be no more undermining. No more sabotage. Until this is all over, or until the end of the year, whichever comes first, we. Are. United.”

McNamara opens her mouth. Chandler knows what she’s going to ask.

“Her, too. Once I find her. All of you. Any one of us breaks it, we’ll _pay_. Understand?”

“I agree,” McNamara whispers. After a moment to consider, Duke nods her head.

“Good. Now, fuck off.”

They leave the room. Heather doesn’t know or care if they’ll leave the house entirely. She just needs to be alone.

That’s kind of difficult, what with Veronica still here.

She grabs Heather just before she collapses, dragging her over to the bed, mumbling words of comfort into her ear. Heather doesn’t hear them. She’s too drained, emotionally, mentally, physically. She hates herself for letting anyone, even Veronica ( _her_ Veronica), see her like this.

“I’ll close the gate,” Veronica murmurs, “I’ll bar the windows. I’ll force the house to keep you safe.”

Any consciousness or energy Heather has left is fading, melting away like ice. She manages two words before both vanish with the dying light.

“Second favor.”


	11. Slain

Fate gives them enough of a reprieve to recover.

They can’t go back to normalcy, any of them – shattered mirrors and shadows make sure of that. Heather Chandler, the Mistress of Micromanagement, is not going to take this lying down. Soon, a new schedule is devised.

Much of the day goes the same as it always does. Chandler gives McNamara a ride, as usual – only now she’s not sure which one will open the car door. Sometimes there’s a squeaky giggle, other times the passenger might leave feathers on the seat. It’s not like either of them do well in school, but with Muse McNamara it’s more that she’s missed half a year of content ( _changeling was scared who wouldn’t be_ ). At least now she can skip Dennis’ political bullshit and come up with something truly inspired for the lunchtime poll.

After school, Duke takes Veronica to the Snappy Snack Shack, or the gardens with the huge, ornate fountain in it, or to one of the community croquet lawns. It changes nearly every time, and Duke always tells Chandler where it is. Meanwhile, Chandler takes whichever McNamara attended school back home so she and her copy can talk. She’s bound them both with another oath – that neither of them can hurt the other, without taking that same injury themselves ( _her arm her arm her head_ ). Combined with the ‘no sabotage’ pact, it means they _have_ to sort out their differences, and the progress so far has been slow but positive.

After their therapy session, Chandler goes and picks up Veronica from whatever she’s doing. She doesn’t say a lot about her day. Veronica says there isn’t much to it, though she does bring back tales and trinkets from her fellow fae exiles on occasion.

When they get home, they chat, or watch a movie, or any number of mundane things – with the curtains closed, of course – until Veronica falls asleep. Heather has some time alone, and she remembers she used to hate that growing up.

Now, it’s more complicated.

Control collapses like a house of cards. Heather digs her fingernails into her flesh, reminding her _she’s real and she’s here Veronica’s fine and this isn’t a dream_. No-one will climb through her window. Nothing can hurt her here. She’s Heather Chandler, she won’t allow it, like the mere thought of her name will ward him and his kind away.

She can’t feel it. She should be happy about this. Hell, people like Kurt and Ram would kill to take blows like it’s nothing. Now it just feels like a part of her is missing. Wrong.

She hasn’t told Veronica – Heather’s worried that she’ll blame herself for this, when it’s obviously not her fault. Not in the slightest. It’s Heather who keeps turning Fate’s head to face her actions, the one who forces it to make sure promises are kept. She’s the one who twists the threads, she shouldn’t be surprised when they wrap themselves around her wrists and make her their puppet.

Heather sits for some time. When she’s finished with her near panic, she picks up the envelope on her bedside table and reads its contents.

It’s the only way she can sleep, and Veronica had said it would wear off eventually.

 

-

 

Three things happen.

One is that Jason returns to school.

Heather is understandably surprised, on two different levels. The first is obvious – his face is back to normal, not the half-melted horror she had seen previous (she gags at the thought of it). The second is, from Duke had been able to gather, the Deans don’t usually stay in one town for longer than six to eight weeks. Maybe Big Bud Dean fell in love with the place. So many buildings for him to destroy.

Well, Jason’s smirking at her like nothing happened. She’ll just follow that lead.

“You’re forgiven.”

Jason raises his eyebrows, the only sign of interest he’s capable of.

“Come again?”

“I said you’re forgiven,” Heather repeats, “if you make me say it again, that offer will be revoked.”

“A woman of infinite mercy, as well,” Jason smirks.

Heather is aware she has quite the audience. Good. That’s what she was hoping for. “That I am. Obviously, Ram and Kurt said something you didn’t like, so I’ve been keeping them in line.” A lie, but Jason doesn’t need to know that. “You swear not to threaten anyone’s life again, and you’re off my shit-list.”

Jason scoffs. Heather doesn’t expect him to accept it, but he’ll probably play along. It’s in his nature to try and fit in.

“Alright. Where do you want me to sign my name, and with what?”

“Shake on it. That’s all.”

Heather extends a hand, and Jason’s face contorts in rage when he examines it.

She’s wearing an iron ring.

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” he sneers, his grin too wide for human lips, “I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

Heather lets the hand drop, and shrugs as she turns away.

“I tried to be nice,” she says to the onlookers. To them, that’s all she’s been.

Heather was kind. Heather was forgiving. Maybe he is as fucked up as the rumors had them believe. Maybe he doesn’t want forgiveness, maybe he wants to be angry. Maybe he’s exactly as he seems.

She sees it in their faces, in the confusion and anger rolling off of them in blood-red waves.

She’s _so_ glad she went with the good queen angle in the end. Otherwise, that move would have been far more risky.

 

-

 

The second thing that happens is Martha… Dunnstock? Chandler had been calling her ‘Dumptruck’ for far too long – Martha Dunnstock tries to kill herself.

Heather has an idea of what prompted this, but it’s still kind of a shock. She never had anything _against_ Martha, but certainly nothing _for_ her either. Besides, Heather hasn’t been that terrible to her in past month, has she? She’s been too busy with Veronica and the endless stream of damage control to even _think_ about ruining her already miserable life.

…Oh. That might be it.

Well, her parents haven’t pulled off life support yet, so that’s a plus. It still sends a shockwave through the community, like a pool if Martha had belly-flopped off the diving board.

Okay, that was uncalled for. Heather’s trying to be better, dammit.

People ask for her opinion on the matter, not always kind about it. Chandler says the same thing every time – she’s not pleased that it happened (and she has no doubt some people hear ‘because it takes the attention off of me’ after that sentence). While she doesn’t know what triggered it, she feels pity all the same.

That’s where it’s left, for now. Nothing but all the what-ifs, how they could be better to her.

Or maybe not. Maybe it was just plain old nothing.

 

_She sees a girl in white rush past in her dreams. Maybe it isn’t._

 

-

 

The third thing is the worst.

Chandler is in front of the local gardens, listening to the rush and splash of water from the fountain as she waits for Veronica. Now that she’s had time to wonder, she’s figured that whatever Veronica’s doing has to do with that second favor Heather mentioned. The thing is, even _she’s_ not sure what she meant by that comment, and has no idea how Veronica could interpret it. Maybe instead of making Heather feel safe, she’s planning on boosting the mansion’s defenses…?

Well, Heather’d hate to tell Veronica she’s been wasting her time, but Heather’s house is practically a fortress as is. She’d work this out with her once she –

There’s a scream.

Heather just had to jinx it, didn’t she?

Of course she runs towards the sound, kicking off her heels in the process. This is what she’s meant to do. She’s the knight, and knights save people, right?

 

She reconsiders her decision when she sees it isn’t Veronica who’s in danger. JD’s standing in front of her protectively, brandishing a pointy stick at Chandler before he, too, realizes the situation.

“Can’t go in there,” Heather hears Veronica mutter, “he’ll kill me. My fault.”

“Nothing’s ever your fault, Ronnie, you’re perfect. What’s going on?”

JD grimaces. “Someone got taken. A girl I spoke to at the party.”

That could mean any number of people, including a few Heather actually cares about. What if it’s poor little Duke? Or McNamara, her keeper returning to take its revenge on its devious servant?

“And you did _nothing_?”

“You have no chance against that guy. Pick your battles.”

“Well, I pick _this one_ , you pussy,” Heather snarls, wrenching the stick from JD’s grasp. “Which way?”

JD points. Heather charges off, and she feels fingertips brush her back as Veronica makes a grab for her.

 

The lack of any sort of pain actually makes Heather feel worse.

It’s quite the feat, given there are barbs tearing into her and sharp stones beneath her feet. Pain would slow her down, but its absence makes this feel more like a nightmare than anything serious. It blurs the line between dream and reality, and for a moment she forgets why she’s running.

She’s here to save someone. She doesn’t know who, yeah, but she’s here to protect. Not kill.

Why did she think that's what's going on?

There’s the sound of whimpering and slow, heavy footfalls from around the bend. That would line up with a kidnapper, carrying their victim.

Chandler advances, quickly but quietly. She looks away from her weapon for a fraction of a second, and when she looks back, the stick is tipped with metal.

In a roundabout way, her lack of surprise surprises her.

 

-

 

It goes like this -

The giant drags his quarry back to his master, easily silencing her attempt at screams. A girl who shows the mark of someone special, the Prince had said, a brunette by preference to remind Him of His lost toy. This one called the giant’s name, and he believed that was special enough.

As he turns around a corner of this stupid maze, the former champion is confronted by a… well, he wouldn’t call her a warrior. She has a spear, and she talks big, but she isn’t dressed for battle. Then again, the last person he lost to was a weak little thing, made of paper and with only a piece of carved wood as a weapon.

“Hey, fuckface,” the little warrior calls, “you couldn’t have found someone better to kidnap? Courtney’s as bland as a slice of white bread, and about as useful as one, too!”

The giant is more confused than anything, but his trophy seems to take offense to this. Not that she can fire back with his hand over her mouth. He does pause in his journey, awaiting this intruder’s next verbal assault.

“Anyone could carry _her_ off. It’s like going fishing, and acting like you caught a shark when really you got a sardine. She’s weak. That means _you_ are, as well, if she’s the best you could get.”

That moves him to action. He is _not_ the frail thing he used to be. His keeper has made sure of that. More bone than skin, now, spurs jutting out of his elbows and his back and his legs.

The giant, the champion, drops his victim – she _was_ weak, it was too easy, no way the Prince would want _her_. “You think you’re something, don’t you, little snake? You’re just as frail as her, it looks like.” This one was better. His master would want someone with a spirit to break.

“I’m not stupid. I know I’m smaller than you. But that’s how it works out in the stories, huh? The tiny one wins, like David. And. Goliath.”

He doesn’t think straight after that. It triggers a thousand bad memories. The pain as he was ‘improved’, stretched and pierced and worn away, the sneer in that Wordsmith’s voice when she woke him up to curse him. The hurt, in his heart and his mind, as his Prince dragged him through these thorns for the first time, away from his mother and father.

He remembers the hitting, wiping the evil grin of the little wyrm’s face. The sound of stolen air as she was thrown back into the thorns. The screams he made, powerful and full of rage as he advanced. Not weak. _Not weak_. He's _brave_.

The sudden dark as the spear was jabbed through his one good eye. The searing, burning pain as it found a gap in his bony defenses. The cold.

The cold.

The giant’s last thoughts are of his father. His last words to him, how brave he was for doing this for his poor old dad.

He was brave.

 

-

 

Heather returns to the other side of the hedge. She sees black and white, and blue and red. Courtney had spent her whole allowance on that sweater, and now it’s ruined. Heather’s blazer is all torn up, too, but that almost feels like penitence.

Heather should be happy. The giant is slain, she saved the hostage, story over. She can’t put her finger on why she isn’t.

She gives JD back his spear, the tip made of wood once again, but still slick with the giant’s blood. It’s hard to tell his mood, what with the lack of eyes and all (Chandler regrets making herself think of that), but he seems both impressed and upset she made it back.

“He wasn’t that big or bad before. I thought it was Keith, he had the right eyes and hair for him. It’s just, I haven’t seen him since... you…” Courtney trails off. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

“Huh. So that’s what that guy traded away,” JD says nonchalantly, “changelings are hard to pick out when you don’t have a reference. Worth it, Heather?”

“Shut up.”

Veronica looks afraid. Veronica looks guilty. She shouldn’t – not her fault Heather charged in like an idiot because someone said she couldn’t do something.

“Can you get yourself home?” Chandler asks, turning to Courtney.

“Can you? You’re kinda pale.”

“I’m fine.” One of these days, that’s going to be true. “If you can go, then go. Tell everyone how I saved you from getting abducted.”

Courtney gets the hint, and scurries away. It’s only when she’s out of sight that Veronica says something.

“Look at what you’ve done.”

“What Terracotta Kid couldn’t,” Heather retorts.

“No. You shouldn’t have gone in. Too much. I’ve done too much.” Veronica gently pulls up Heather’s ragged sleeve.

It’s a mess under there, as expected – Heather felt the blows, the spines digging in and pulling out, they just didn’t hurt. Nothing too deep, nothing that couldn’t be fixed or hidden.

Only there were things poking out of the wounds. Heather first thought that they were just bits of torn skin sticking out. But no.

Tiny, neat and perfect, just hidden below the outer layer. Ruby red scales.

And Heather had thought she was the knight. Being the dragon made far more sense.


	12. Little Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: One instance of a homophobic slur, implied character death.

“Hey, Dennis. You seen Heather? Chandler, I mean.”

“No. It’s a pain, I have great lunchtime poll question for her. You wouldn’t _believe_ what the president said the other day.”

 “I’m sure I wouldn’t. It’s just that there’s this rumor going around, and I want to ask her if there’s any truth to it. Courtney’s been saying-”

“Hold up. You’re trusting what _Courtney_ says about Heather? _Chandler_?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, sanctimonious smugness versus the devil in disguise. But here’s the thing – Courtney says Heather saved her life. Some guy dragged her off, and Heather convinced him to let her go. Something about bread.”

“…This is a lot to take in. It was Courtney saying this?”

“Heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“I don’t know, Peter. She’s lied about Heather so many times. Like about how Chandler might’ve killed that kid who overdosed last year, or how she might be an armored-closet homosexual. Even if it is positive, it’s just too unbelievable.”

“It might be a Girl-Who-Cried-Wolf situation. Lie, lie, lie, and the one time she tells the truth no-one believes her.”

“…I’ll consider it. If it turns out to be true, though, you’re gonna end up next to the Taco Bell coupon. This calls for a public service announcement.”

“I’m willing to make that sacrifice.”

 

-

 

Heather has spent the last ten hours with her face in her pillow, willing the world away for a day. Not crying, God no. Heather Chandler doesn’t cry.

She doesn’t even know if she still _has_ tear ducts.

If she wanted to go to school, she’d have to do her makeup. If she wants to do her makeup, she has to look at herself. Veronica has bandaged her wounds (and she hopes there aren’t any internal injuries), but that couldn’t hide what was beneath the skin forever. Those few minutes between worlds had forced them through, the features that Heather supposes were always there in the form of personality traits and abstract ideas.

A dragon. Of course. Chandler is arrogant, possessive, regal, a threat. No amount of playing at being the hero would change that she does it for personal gain. To protect what she believes is hers.

Wait. Does this mean she’s going to die? The dragon is killed by the noble knight. That’s how it goes.

Is she going to kill herself…?

A silk-smooth hand runs down her back. Veronica again. She’s been doing this on and off for a while now, struggling to find the right words. Her first response to it – that it isn’t Heather’s fault – was dismissed early on. This is one hundred percent Heather’s fault. If she’d just stopped at the first sign something was wrong, it wouldn’t have been as bad.

The other response – “You’re still beautiful. You’re amazing.” – well, that’s a matter of opinion. Of course _Veronica_ thinks she’s gorgeous.

“Heather’s here to see you.”

“Wifch Heaffur?” Chandler asks into the pillow.

“Green one. Heather Duke.”

Heather groans instinctively, but then she remembers the oath they made. Duke can’t do anything to her. Even if she could, Chandler’s pretty sure that illusion, that mask that Veronica, JD and McNamara have, will work for her as well.

She sits up, running her fingers through the tangles in her hair (careful not to pull too hard, tearing it out is becoming a real risk). “I guess she can come in.”

Veronica hesitates, then presses a quick kiss to Heather’s nose before going to open the door.

There she is. Heather Duke, in all her… attempt at glory.

“You look like shit.”

Chandler smiles at that. It’s true, but the fact that’s _all_ Duke says means she’s right about the illusion. This seems to be worse than telling her to shut up, because Duke looks straight-up shocked that Chandler didn’t tear her a new asshole.

“You’re out of school a little early,” Chandler notes.

Duke holds up the get-out-of-jail-free card Veronica made for her. “Had a ‘family emergency’. I wanted to ask you something. People have been saying stuff about you-”

“I’m on everyone’s mind, Heather. Of course they talk about me.”

“-stuff that doesn’t sound like you.”

Slowly, languidly, Heather rises and moves towards Duke. “Tell me more.”

And there goes that confidence, broken like an eggshell. Dammit. Duke was getting better at this.

“Well, um, first off, Courtney’s been telling anyone who’ll listen you’re a good person-”

“False. Courtney lies. You should know that, Heather.”

“So you _didn’t_ save her from a kidnapper?”

Chandler makes a face. “No, _that’s_ true, but my motivation was spite. I didn’t even know it was Courtney when I committed to it.”

Duke thinks this over, then moves down a few dot-points on her mental checklist before speaking again.

“Okay, rapid fire round. Donating to the Foodless Fund?”

“ _Please_. Peter uses that to better his chances of getting to Harvard, not because he _cares_.”

“Secretly plotting to take over the town?”

“I’m happy with ruling the school. No.”

“…Dating anyone right now?”

“No-one at Westerburg,” Chandler replies. Veronica gives her a covert wink.

Duke nods slowly, unsure. Clearly one of those answers was not to her liking, and Chandler can hazard a guess as to which one it is. “Can we… talk privately? Nothing against you, Veronica. It’s just kind of personal.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll, uh, leave you to it.”

The door closes gently (like with everything Veronica does) and Chandler can practically hear Duke straining her ears, listening for the sound of fading footsteps. The wannabe queen almost relaxes for moment, then she remembers who she’s talking to and tenses up all over again. When she does speak, it almost sounds like she’s suffocating.

“Are – are you… okay, Heather?”

Blind panic shoots through Heather’s heart like a bullet, fast and cold. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’re not the sort of person who gets all weepy when life gets hard. You’re not a poet – no offense,” there’s none taken, but the way Duke is speeding up heightens Chandler’s worry, “I dunno why, but when we talk face-to-face and when we talk on the phone, you’re a completely different person.”

There’s something there. The Key of Revelation has been placed in the Lock of Shit-Heather-Doesn’t-Understand, but it hasn’t been turned.

“When was the last time I called?” Heather’s voice is so hollow and disconnected it’s like it’s coming from another person.

“I don’t know. A couple of days ago?”

_Wrong._

“And what have I been saying?”

Duke’s eyes widen as the reaches the same conclusion as Chandler. “U-um, how life sucks, it’s all too much, you’re, um, tired of hiding your forbidden love for V-”

The sentence turns into a short, sharp shriek as Chandler’s fist goes through the wall.

“One day, Heather. One. _Fucking_. Day.”

“What?!”

“I want _ONE_ day where someone isn’t trying to screw me over!” Chandler roars, and she can hear a second layer to her voice, something deep and feral and _wrong_ (can Duke hear it? Is the glamour a trick of the ears as well as the eyes?), “The Westerburg Thunderdome and Heather’s _Dead Ringers_ bullshit and Jason _FUCKING_ Dean trying to ruin me, one pain on top of the other! They’re waiting for me to fail! _YOU’RE_ waiting for me to fail, to get crushed under the weight of the world! Well, **_ALL_** of you lick my **_MOTHERFUCKING_** clit, ‘cause I am goddamn **_ATLAS up in this bitch!_** ”

There’s a knock at the bedroom door.

“Everything okay in there, Heather?”

“ ** _EVERYTHING’S FINE!_** ”

“…I’m gonna make you some tea. Green Heather, you want tea?”

Duke makes a high-pitched whining noise, like water reaching its boiling point.

“I’m taking that as a yes. Be back in ten minutes.”

Strangely enough, that tiny distraction is enough to force a break in Heather’s berserker rage. Both of them take a few seconds to breathe, to get their bearings.

“I’m not mad at you,” Chandler sighs, “well, I kind of am, but I’m not gonna shoot the messenger. How often does this impostor call you up?” No response. “Need a minute? Okay, I can wait.”

Heather takes a seat on her bed, thinking over the facts while Duke hyperventilates. For once, it’s not her who’s challenging Chandler’s authority. A theory she entertains is that it’s one of the changelings imitating her – it’s their _raison d'être,_ to steal people’s identities, why stop with just one person? It’s someone who knows the Heathers relatively well, who knows Chandler’s big secret _and_ expects Duke to knife her the first chance she gets. There’s an obvious suspect. He’s probably sniggering to himself while he opens up Heather’s heart for her.

“Code,” Duke squeaks.

“Hmm?”

“Use a code. Something you can say to prove who’s talking.”

Chandler grins. “ _Smart_. Well, you came up with it, give me a code. Don’t press your luck. No getting me to say ‘I am a raging bulldyke’ or whatever.”

It’s also a test of loyalty. Heather’s always worried that if she gives Duke an inch, she’ll take a mile – it’s what everyone else does, it’s what Fake McNamara is _terrified_ of. Why would Duke be any different?

“ _The heather red around us_.”

Chandler frowns. “What does that mean?”

“It’s from a poem. The last two people who know a secret standing up to an evil king. ‘The heather was red around them’, that’s…” Duke fidgets. “…It’s one of the lines.”

“Well, if I don’t recite that particular line of shitty poetry, feel free to dis the faker all you want.”

Duke’s face lights up, as it always does when someone else is the target of Chandler’s wrath. Good. Not only is Duke trustworthy, bringing the info to Chandler first, she’ll also stay on side so long as she has an outlet.

Not that she’ll have much of a chance, though. Once Chandler finds the bastard impersonating her, _she will kill them_.

 

-

 

_“Hi.”_

_The girl glared up at her. Not that Heather blamed her – it smelled of deodorant and candy, bittersweet and far too strong. Now that she thought of it, maybe the disgusted look on this chick’s face had to do with the odor, rather than her._

_At least, she hoped so._

_“My name’s Heather. I’m here to give you your school tour.”_

_The girl scowled. “I know being sent here is my punishment, but do you have to take my name, too?”_

_Oh. Okay. There was a lot to unpack in that sentence, but perhaps it was best to focus on the… not negative. Her name was also Heather. That was something they could bond over. Right?  
_

_“I’m sure it’s a name we could share. I mean, I already share it with another Heather. Would you like to meet her?”_

_The girl’s eyes traveled up and down, examining her, and Heather couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. It was very easy to feel inferior to this girl, looking like she stepped out of a magazine._

_“Hm. Maybe. There’s some work to be done, but you’re not a complete lost cause.” The girl held out her hand. “My name is Heather_ Chandler _. And you are Heather…?”_

_“McNamara.”_

 

Heather wakes with a gasp of someone drowning, long and shuddering. For once, it’s not the dream’s fault, and she’s not sure how she knows this. There’s something missing from _this_ version of her, the real her, like something’s broken beyond repair.

The question is, what?

She’d get up and work it out, if only Veronica weren’t still sound asleep. Chandler made a promise that she intends to keep, even if the ‘protection’ she provides is nothing more than letting her girlfriend avoid the waking world for another few hours.

…

Promise.

Broken.

Heather growls under her breath.

 

-

 

Chandler stares at herself in the mirror, long, hard and cold.

It doesn’t feel as wrong as it should. This is not supposed to be natural, and yet Heather’s subconscious accepts it as if she was born this way. That just makes her feel worse.

At least she’s still the same shape. Mostly. On the one hand, she misses being able to sleep on her back without impaling her pillow. On the other, all of her time wearing pumps has paid off, now that her heels no longer touch the ground.

She _has_ to go to school. There are questions that _need_ to be answered, but the same problem as yesterday presents itself. So, she keeps glaring at her reflection, remembering how she used to look – her nails weren’t talons, her teeth didn’t come to needle-like points, her eyes were a stormy grey with perfectly round pupils…

Something in her eye changes, like she’s shifted her focus, and Chandler sees the illusion instead. It’s a comfort and a concern to know that, despite everything, most people still see her as the same old vindictive Heather.

If she focuses on that, no-one will be any the wiser.

Humming to herself, Heather starts applying her makeup.

 

-

 

The first big test of the day would have been Heather McNamara – The Muse McNamara – but she doesn’t even look at Chandler when she gets in her car. Heather’s too curious to be offended.

“Something wrong?” She asks.

McNamara doesn’t answer, her eyes still downcast. Quick glances at her confirm Chandler’s first impression. They’re sunken, shadowed, like McNamara’s gone days without sleep.

“I’ll rephrase that. Something _is_ wrong. Spill.”

“Where would you like me to start?”

“Is Alison challenging your authority again?” Wait. That was the wrong thing to say. It’s the _other_ McNamara that has that problem. Maybe the thing that’s missing from the changeling is confidence, given how often that problem comes up.

This one doesn’t seem to notice. “Someone broke the promise. Did you know?”

“It woke me up, but I swear it wasn’t me.”

“You’re the one who made the pledge. Of course you wouldn’t.”

There’s an uneasy silence.

“She didn’t come home last night,” McNamara continues, “the other me. She’s been hurt.”

Oh, shit. This is Heather’s fault, too. She wasn’t at school to give her a ride home, maybe she got kidnapped walking back from the bus stop, why didn’t Kurt or Ram offer to pick her up after practice (is football practice even running)?

“How do you know that?”

McNamara smiles bitterly. “We’re the same person. You made sure that we were connected.”

( _This is all your doing, Heather. That’s what she’s saying._ )

“Is she dead?”

McNamara shrugs.

That’s where the conversation ends. Chandler is left to stew in her regret and her failure.

 

-

 

It is a mess in the hallways. It’s usually chaos, admittedly, but today takes it up to a whole new level.

Heather overhears teachers discussing whether or not it was a senior prank, even though it’s months before any of them get out of school. Some kids just accept it, some are unused to being the victim. They walk by Kurt and Ram, huddled with the rest of the football team, probably already plotting a mediocre revenge.

Every single locker that the Heathers pass has been defaced in some way. Doors beaten in, crumpled like paper. Childish insults or sigils drawn haphazardly. Some are charred, or they have what looks like black paint dripping out of them.

Speaking of the paint, it’s everywhere. If it’s not leaking out of lockers, it’s forming words on the walls, all in different handwriting.

 

**BLIND**

**ARMY OF ASSHOLES**

**WESTERBURG WILL BURN**

**PLEBS**

**DREGS OF A DYING SOCIETY**

**THE PRINCE IS COMING**

Heather bares her teeth when she sees that last one, before she remembers herself. She’s normal. She has to be. She’s being watched.

“Geez,” Duke breathes, “I’m not looking forward to seeing what’s been done to us.”

“Nothing’s been done to _us_ , Heather. Sure, our stuff might be a bit messed up, but _we_ are fine. Remember that.”

“Sorry, Heather.”

McNamara chokes when they enter the girl’s locker room, and she’s right to do so.

This room has it the worst, and Heather can get the reasons why. The curses are personalized here – Courtney is agonizing over the many instances of **LIAR** over every inch of her space. Tracey is on the floor, head in her hands, because her locker (and the drugs hidden within, no doubt) has been burnt to a crisp.

At first glance, Duke’s locker is relatively untouched. When she opens it, however, every single one of her books has been coated in black, the pages stuck together.

“Lot of goddamn effort,” she mumbles.

McNamara is still staring in horror at the **POOR LITTLE HEATHER** written over her door. Chandler catches a glimpse of **SHE DIED SCREAMING** before McNamara slams it shut after a split second of investigation. She joins Tracey on the floor, mourning the part of herself Chandler failed to protect.

( _The part Chandler made her care about. She would have done the deed far less painfully if Chandler didn’t stop her. All Heather did was delay the guilt. She amplified it._ )

Chandler doesn’t even need to open her locker for her blood to run colder than before. A Barbie doll, a tiny tiara adorning her head, pinned to the door by a miniature spear.

(You _used a spear, didn’t you, Heather? Dragon slain by the knight. Or the Prince, as the case may be._ )

She can feel the countless eyes on her back. Waiting for her to scream in anger or laugh like a madwoman. Some sort of reaction to this madness.

Well, maybe their image of Heather Chandler is off. She’s not going to stamp her foot like the brat she used to be. She’s not going to curl up and cry, and she’s not going to lash out at inanimate objects for the second time this week.

No. Heather Chandler’s not going to lie down and let herself get murdered.

She will _rage_ against the dying of the light.


	13. Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later than usual. Sorry. Been busy.  
> Warnings: Character Death, Violence, Body Horror.

“Heather?”

Heather looks up from her book (Grimm’s Fairy Tales, lent to her by Duke) to regard Veronica, standing awkwardly at the bedroom door. It’s true that she’s often awkward, but she’s been getting more relaxed when it’s just her and Chandler.

“What’s up?”

Veronica doesn’t look at her, fascinated with her own fidgeting fingers. “How would you feel about another temporary roommate?”

Heather sighs, placing her bookmark and sauntering over.

“You’re not temporary, Ronnie. Stop thinking I’m gonna move on.”

“Not talking about me, hun.”

JD the living furnace steps out from behind her, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“Guess who?”

Chandler takes a deep, calming breath.

“He needs a place to stay. He lost his… house?” Veronica turns, silently asking for clarification. JD tilts his head to one side, then nods. “A bunch of what he calls ‘puckish little rogues’ have been tearing up and down his corner of the hedge. He needs a place to stay until it blows over.”

“I suspect there’ll be a host travelling through that area soon enough,” JD adds.

There was lot to unpack in that explanation. A host – that’s an old word for an army, right? Made more sense than, say, Bob Barker strolling down a path riddled with rotting corpses. So, that ‘host’ might be the dreaded prince and associates. Presumably, the ‘puckish little rogues’, whatever the hell that means, also had something to do with them.

“How long before they come through here?”

JD raises his eyebrows. “You’re sure they’ll be stopping by this corner of the world, hm?”

“I don’t who they are, but they are supposedly on their way,” Chandler replies, her voice carefully even. She doesn’t want to give this guy any ammunition – it’ll all blow up if he gets too close. “There’s a guest room on the second floor, all the way down the corridor. House rules are don’t mess anything up, no setting anything on fire, and keep quiet. Got it?”

JD puts his hand over where his heart should be. “I swear on my honor.”

_Oh, that little shit._

…Fuck it. Heather just wants him out of her hair.

“Cool. Off you go.”

JD throws one last knowing glance at Veronica before he leaves.

“You okay?” asks Veronica.

“Peachy.”

“Only… you’re kinda smoking.”

Heather looks herself over and, indeed, there’s a couple of curling trails of smoke escaping from her lips. She waves them away – the last thing she wants is for her frustration to set off the fire alarm.

“You sure you’re okay with this?”

“As long as he leaves after everything quiets down, yeah. So, wait, he _lives_ in there?”

Veronica shrugs. “Apparently. Where else is he gonna go?”

That’s a fair point. Even if there was only one Jason Dean, his dad doesn’t really seem to care for him. Chandler doesn’t know what happened to his mom, and she doesn’t care enough to find out.

“As long as he keeps to himself, he can stay.”

“Thanks, Heather.”

Veronica smiles, and it’s so _cute_ , with the crinkling around her eyes, it’s like she’s wrapped Heather’s soul in a warm fuzzy blanket. The world can stay outside Chandler’s bedroom door for a little longer.

The phone rings, ruining an otherwise perfect moment. Heather presses a kiss on the back of Veronica’s hand before going to answer it.

“Chandler residence.”

“Heather!” McNamara. “I need help. I’m downtown. It’s an emergency!”

And Chandler had just eased the fear grasping at her heart.

…But no. She’s not going to blindly walk into the bad side of town without precaution.

“What’s the phrase we use, Heather?” she asks, calm and detached.

“What phrase? What are you talking about?!”

“We went over this today, Heather.” This is true – she’d made McNamara repeat it at five different points in time to make sure she got it. “I made it very clear that you need to say the magic words before you make me do anything.”

“…I can’t remember! Please, Heather, I need your help! It’s matter of life and death! I could die!”

This doesn’t help. It doesn’t help Chandler, because now panic is getting a hold of her, and it doesn’t help… this person talking, because it _also_ makes Heather angry.

“I can’t act until you say it, Heather. Not unless I should be calling you by a different name.”

There’s deafening silence on the other end. A brief smattering of static.

“…Can I go home, now?”

Heather’s hand tightens on the receiver. “What?”

“I did everything you asked,” says McNamara, and it sounds like she’s mocking someone, teasing some geek in the halls by throwing his own words back at him, “you said we’re supposed to stick together. Well, I helped. I wanna go home.”

Chandler doesn’t speak. She’s distracted by the faint chittering on the other end. As if some creature – a bug, perhaps, something that has no idea what amusement sounds like – is trying to laugh.

“Please let me go home. I feel bad enough for doing this as it is. Please,” ‘McNamara’ jeers. The attempts at cackling are clearer now, like this fake is performing a comedy act for its inhuman audience.

“I will _crucify_ you.”

The noise stops.

“I will tear that stolen voice from your fucking throat,” Chandler snarls, “I’ll put a knife through that shriveled black husk you call a heart. Whatever she was and whatever she did, she was my _friend_. And anyone who hurts my friends? I’ll find out who they are, and they will get exactly what’s coming to them.”

“You wO _n_ ’t find Us!” a voice she doesn’t recognize pipes up, and it sounds like a cicada’s chirp articulated into human speech. “We **ar** e strong tog _et_ hEr! WE’ve do ** _ne_** Lots!”

“Oh, you can’t fight me in person? Then run, you little shits. Hide in your hedge. Never come back. If you do, I’ll snap your necks like twigs.”

She slams down the receiver so hard, the plastic casing cracks.

 

-

                                                  

To her credit, Veronica doesn’t blank out like she's done in the past. When Chandler tells her about what the graffiti implied, she remains calm, she processes it, then goes downstairs to ask JD a few questions.

By morning, they have a semblance of a plan.

As much as Heather hates dressing Veronica down, it’s a necessary thing. Veronica can’t be noticed too early, and if she wears what McNamara bought her, she’d be too stunning for Jason _not_ to notice. Veronica doesn’t mind the fugly dress or the multicolored scarf Heather’s grandma made, and she’s pleasantly surprised that JD’s denim jacket fits her, but Chandler mourns the temporary loss of style.

And so, Veronica Sawyer walks into Westerburg for the first time in thirty years, armed with a journal full of loose-leaf creations ready to spring to life.

Heather wants to keep her closer, to take her hand and watch the crowds part like the Red Sea for her. To place her on a pedestal far above the common rabble she’s pretending to be. But, if Chandler does that, Jason will take notice and the element of surprise would be ruined.

“You’re going to kill him,” Duke repeats for the what feels like the hundredth time.

“Yep.”

“You’re… going to ambush him. And kill him. You’re going to kill a person.”

“Not a person,” Chandler corrects her, “he’s lost the right to call himself that.”

She surveys the swarms of students, searching. Nothing interesting, apart from Kurt striking up a conversation with Veronica. She’ll have to think of an appropriate punishment for that.

No sign of him. Did he get spooked? Or is he planning something? Stupid question, really.

“Did _I_ have the right to call myself a person?” McNamara asks.

“What sort of question is that?”

“I’m talking about the other one. The one that took my place.”

Good thing Chandler’s in front of McNamara, so she can’t see the look that crosses Heather’s face. An unlucky freshman does, and he’s one step from screaming as he scurries out of their way.

“What the _fuck_ is that?!”

Heather turns to face Duke, a fearsome scowl on her face. “What is it _now,_ Heather?”

Duke points, just above her head. Chandler casts her eyes up, just for a moment.

…Now that she looks at it, the thing looks like that mysterious bug-voice sounded. Somewhere between an insect and a miniature person, but leaning far too close to the former for it to be cute.

Then it dives for Heather’s eyes. Not cute at _all_.

A short fight, to be sure – Heather pulls it off pretty quickly, and it claws at her hand, hoping to cause enough pain to force its captor to release it. No such luck. She watches with mild interest as it carves tiny little trails into her skin, even as others start to scream around her. Is it this one, or more of them?

“Spriggans,” a voice from one side says, and Heather knows it’s Veronica, “chittering, chitinous, chaotic. Or, if you prefer, ‘puckish little rogues’. Generally not smart enough to come out of their hollows.”

Was this his evil plan? Bringing a bunch of weird bugs through a magic door? Really?

“Okay, how do I kill it?”

“I dunno. Throw it against a wall or something.”

Heather does. Like an insect on a windshield, it twitches slightly before it stops.

“Cover your heads,” she tells the other Heathers, “locker room. Go!”

She watches them leave – and, yes, there’s more than one of the insects. A lot more than one. A veritable plague trying to tear its way through the student body, and in some cases succeeding.

Maybe it was more of a problem than she first thought. Whatever.

She reckons she knows how to end it.

 

-

 

“Peter. Peter! Look at me.”

“Kinda hard, Dennis!”

“I know, just- don’t panic. We’ll fix this, we just gotta get to the phones. Call the police.”

“We’re mostly safe in here! Just wait it out!”

“No! Peter, people might be dying! You’re the one who stops this sort of thing, you just have to do it for real, this time!”

“My _eye_ is _hanging_ out of _the socket_ , _Dennis_!”

“Here.”

“…Who was that?”

“She’s familiar, but I dunno her name.”

“Well. When life gives you a baseball bat, smack some fairies. Sit tight.”

 

-

 

Courtney did not expect the apocalypse to go down like this. Where are the angels? The Four Horsemen? Why is she still here, instead of being taken by the rapture?

She doesn’t remember reading about hellish demon locusts, but here she is, hiding in the locker room with a few unlucky souls as God’s plague tears at her poor classmates.

Heather McNamara (the bird one – why is she a bird? Is Courtney going crazy?) and Heather Duke burst through the doors Courtney had tried to barricade. Duke grinds one of the locusts into the linoleum with her heel as she makes her entrance - it makes a sickening crunch as it's crushed underfoot.

“Where’s Heather?” Courtney asks. They shrug, unconcerned. McNamara heads over to her locker and starts rummaging through it – **SHE DIED SCREAMING** still hasn’t been rubbed off, and Courtney wonders whether she knew what was coming.

“Tracey,” Duke breathes, “Tracey, I need the lighter.”

Tracey. Where is Tracey? Courtney saw her before.

“What are you going to do?”

“Chemistry.”

McNamara slams her locker shut, holding up the object of her search.

A can of hairspray.

“Oh.”

 

-

 

Kurt is having what might be the best day of his life.

And yeah, he’s pretty sure people are getting creamed by the little bug people, but hey, he’s managed to cut a few of them clean in half, not counting the ones he just straight-up killed – that means something, right? He’s so good at this.

And hey, Ram’s having a great time, too. Neither of them are sure how that chick got a spear into the school, but he’s got, like, a spit-roast of gross pixie things down the haft. Kurt would say it’s more impressive than just cutting them up, but he doesn’t want to admit that to Ram or to himself.

What did that girl say they were supposed to do again? ‘Save Heather’? Heather’s fine. She’s got her own homemade flamethrower, and it’s super effective against the little bastards. Maybe he could swap…

Nah. His thing is better. Besides, the girl made him a deal for it. Act chivalrous, and he gets to keep his sword.

Kurt’s good with his sword.

 

-

 

Chandler’s gotten very good at raging. Things get crushed under her feet, she steps over the corpses and cowards in her path, her entire being burning with righteous fury. She’s searching the air, feeling around the fear and panic and malicious glee for something stronger.

How badly did one have to fuck up for her to be the good guy here? She’s not sure what reasoning Jason has for doing all of this, any of this, but she’s very interested as to what his train of thought is.

A flash of inspiration hits her. The gym. Of course the gym. If he’s trying to get an army though, he’d need a big door.

Her knuckles grow white around the knife handle as her strides gain further purpose.

 

_Jason._

Finding him wasn’t a matter of finding anticipation, or anger. No. It was finding silence in a sea of panic. A void in a flood of overwhelming emotion. As expected, he’s sitting in front of the open gym doors, a bowl of milk on either side and orange cloth pinned up against them. Poor tribute.

“You’d be surprised what you can get in without teachers paying you notice,” he chuckles, eyes wide with wonder as the air around the doors shimmers, “duffel bags, full of them. They were so happy to help me. They were wondering why I wanted to stop with vandalism, and I found they were right. Why not go further?”

Why not? His answer to the ultimate question of ‘why’ is ‘why not’?! That’s…

…

Fair. Fair, but disappointing. He’s not a person, after all. No point in bothering with morality. Do it because you can.

One answer down.

“Did you kill Heather McNamara?”

“Not directly.” His voice is suddenly higher, slower, familiar. “ _You said we’re supposed to stick together_.” He laughs again. “She was afraid of you. That you would betray her for the older model. And yet, _you_ did nothing while _she_ opened the metaphorical gates for me. What happened to her was poetic justice, really.”

Chandler takes a step forward. “I said other things to you as well, didn’t I?”

“Finally backing up your words with actions, are you? Well, I’ve already gotten what I wanted. Shall we?”

Instead of facing her like a man (he isn’t a man), he runs forward through the doors, disappearing as if through a veil.

Chandler follows.

 

The quarry doesn’t get far before Chandler drives her knee into his back. It’s a wider path, this time, ground trodden down under however many different kinds of feet – she briefly wonders why the path is so well-worn before her focus returns to the villain in front of her.

Through his heart. His throat. His eye. Still, he laughs, a choking, wheezing, _awful_ sound, until he can’t anymore.

Then, the smile on his face literally cracks in two.

Wax. All along, he was made of wax. His skin flakes, sloughs away from his tarnished brass bones, and that’s the end of Jason Dean.

Chandler can’t bring herself to feel anything.

“Fascinating.”

A voice, the low rumble of thunder, the sound of imminent danger. Behind her.

Heather turns to see.

As described. Silver hair streaming out behind him, shocks of white flickering through. Eyes bright, stormy, swirling in their sockets like a hurricane. Vicious, wild, yet undoubtedly striking. A small force of shriveled little men crowd behind him, all armed.

Regarding her for a moment, he grins with white and jagged teeth.

“Perhaps you, instead.”


	14. Breaking the Cycle

It repeats. Some minor details change, but in the end, it’s always the same story.

A maiden is kidnapped. She finds herself in a dragon’s lair, and the courageous Prince rides through the countryside, up into the mountains of flint and bone, to save her. The method varies – by spear or by sword, by magic or mind, the Prince always defeats the dragon and takes the maiden back to His castle. The story ends there.

Who cares that the dragon never did the kidnapping? Who cares what happens to the poor girl after she’s ‘rescued’? Nobody cares about the before or the after.

All the Prince cares about is the tale. The winning. The power.

 

Again. It happens again.

Pacing up and down its cold, barren cave, the dragon waits for the arrival. Poor thing always gets thrown out of a cart, in a sack. The dragon remembers helping to open it a few times in the past, but they always panic, they make it worse for themselves. It stopped bothering after a while.

Honestly, it should know how it goes by now. It’s already learned not to try and escape what’s coming – it tried to fly away once, but that ended… poorly. He’s the Prince of Summer Storms, obviously the dragon can’t take to the skies in its efforts to escape. He’s up there, too. He’s everywhere. The maiden can’t escape, either. Even if the dragon stopped doing its task (and it has to, it suffers far more than normal if it doesn’t), no doubt thunder and lightning and unrelenting heat would be more brutal than anything the dragon would do.

It never understood that. It’s a dragon. It’s supposed to be all about destruction and death and eating people, but it finds the only real, feral anger it can feel is towards the Prince.

There’s the ratting, creaking noise of the cart again. The dragon feels there’s supposed to be a horse or something pulling it, but it never catches a glimpse of any pack animal. Just the cart, the goblin drudge in the front, and the burlap sack.

Speaking of, the girl manages to get herself out this time. Her skin is marbled with crystal veins, smooth and shining like a polished stone statue.

…Come to think of it, has the dragon seen this one before? There’s something familiar about her face, yet this maiden has eyes much the same as the others, looking at her ‘captor’ with a mixture of defiance, awe and fear. Its spotty, patchwork memory can’t recall ever seeing the same girl twice, but it can’t shake this feeling of déjà vu no matter how hard it tries.

“You can hazard a guess as to how this will go,” it says, “He gets up here, I get stabbed or whatever, you get taken back.”

“Where?”

“I dunno. Can’t leave here, and I’m usually too busy being, y’know, _stabbed_ to notice where He takes His _fair maidens_.”

“You sound far too… normal for a dragon,” the maiden remarks, frowning. The way she says ‘normal’ seems off. Maybe she wanted a different word to describe the dragon’s tone.

“How do you know what a dragon is supposed to sound like?”

The maiden thinks on this for a moment, then shrugs. “You got me there.”

“Anyway,” the dragon sits back, crossing its forepaws, “we got may-be a day before all that happens, so we got some time to chat. Tell me who you are. What you did. Let it all out while He’s not hanging over you.”

The dragon finds that helps some of the girls get a handle on things. Accept themselves and whatever’s going to happen. Helps to relieve some of the dragon’s perpetual ennui, too. Like when…

Green? Yellow? Can’t be right. All maidens wear white, it’s part of the deal. Who wore green? Who wore yellow? What did they tell her?

 _Her_?

_YOU ARE A DRAGON. NEVER ANYTHING ELSE._

The dragon can’t help but feel that’s wrong.

“What I did,” the maiden says quietly, sitting against the wall. “Well, I tried to kill myself.”

“Damn. When? Why?”

“Before I came here. When I was at school. I was just… I was the laughing stock. The punching bag. No-one ever did anything about it, no-one helped me. And there was this girl, she was the worst. Even when people kept talking about how nice she was, how good she was being, she was never anything but terrible to me. Nothing was going to change, so I decided to take myself out of the picture. That way I wouldn’t have to hear them anymore.”

Why is the dragon feeling guilty? Maybe it's prying too much. “So, you tried. You didn’t succeed?”

“Well, no. When I was in hospital, this… he was beautiful. He had a horse – with wings – and golden hair and soft sapphire eyes and he was…” she struggles for the right phrase, reaching out as if to physically grasp the words, “…exactly what I wanted. He said in this low soothing voice about how he wanted to take me away from all of this pain, and of course I said yes, and hopped on.”

“So, not the Prince.”

“Not _this_ Prince.”

“Why are you here now, then?”

The maiden turns away. “He got bored, I guess. Nobody spends much time around him. I got traded for a snow-globe, in the end.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. Yikes.”

They fall into silence for a while, the dragon drumming its claws on the stone floor as it mulls this over. It’s definitely heard this one before, or knows it from somewhere.

Might as well bite the bullet.

“Have we met before?”

“I think I would remember meeting a dragon.” The maiden smiles softly. “My name is Martha Dunnstock, if that helps.”

Martha-

“ _Shit_.”

Martha’s head snaps up.

“I… shit,” the dragon (no wait, that’s wrong) continues, “Martha. I – oh my god. Of course.”

(you did this)

_NO YOU DIDN’T. YOU WERE NEVER ANYTHING OTHER THAN A DRAGON._

“You know me?” Martha asks, and – yes, of course she knows her, everyone knew about Martha Dumptruck (don’t call her that) _YOU DON’T KNOW HER_.

“I forgot. Maybe – I think I was _made_ to forget, how long have I – _Veronica_ …”

(you forgot veronica) _YOU DON’T KNOW THE WORDSMITH._

Martha’s mood switches from confusion to full-on alarm when the dragon _YOU ARE A DRAGON, NOTHING ELSE._ breaks down. The dragon (you’re heather chandler, heather chandler doesn’t cry) feels a hesitant touch to the top of (her) _ITS_ head, a frightened, unsure attempt to calm her captor.

“Take your time. What do you remember? How do you know me?”

 _YOU ARE NOT WEAK._ (you are not weak)

Heather Chandler is weak.

She let herself get taken (you didn’t, you fought, you killed). She let herself get twisted into this _YOU DIDN’T. YOU WERE ALWAYS A DRAGON._ and she let herself get shoved into this story. She didn’t fight until her last breath, as Heather Chandler should have, because _she forgot she was Heather Chandler_.

“I did this,” she says, eyes still screwed shut. “I’m Heather.”

Martha stops breathing.

“I did the things I did for power. It’s a pyramid, or a pile of corpses. Other people have to be shoved down for me to be on top. I’m sorry I let it get that bad.”

“Heather. Chandler.”

“Yes. And, breaking news - Heather Chandler is apologizing. It never should have gotten to the point that you thought the only way to stop it was death.”

The hand pulls away, as slowly as it was placed, and Heather hears footsteps move away from her, to the far corner of the cave.

Time passes. She doesn’t know how long it is.

“I could get us out of here. I have an idea. I’d take you back, too.”

No response. Heather lifts her head. Martha definitely heard her. Maybe she’s just thinking how to respond.

“It’s hell here, and it’s hell over there. What difference does it make?”

“I can fix it.”

“Can you?”

She can’t, really – Westerburg students hang on to every word every glare or smile, but that doesn’t mean they process them. People don’t want to change their ways when it’s served them perfectly well in the past, even with a well-place threat or two. Of course, she might still be their leader. They’ll listen to her. Won’t they?

“I’ll _try_ to fix it,” Heather clarifies, “I’ll give it a serious go.”

“…Thank you. May I say something?”

“Go for it.”

“Fuck you, Heather.”

Chandler chuckles. “Yeah, had that one coming for a _long_ time.”

“You sure this’ll work?”

“Pretty sure. Let me tell you a story.”

 

-

 

It goes like this  -

The Prince of Summer Storms, the noble, courageous, savage and terrible Prince of Summer Storms, rides up to the dragon’s cave alone. A dangerous beast to destroy, of this He is certain, yet He also trusts in His sword arm and His wit to carry Him through the day. A maiden is relying on Him, He cannot falter now.

The dragon waits for Him towards the top of the mountain, in a cave lined with seams of gold and gems. Its eyes burn with hellish fury, blood red and firey orange blending together, surrounding slit pupils. Beautiful and deadly, fierce and awesome – a fitting foe for Him to face.

He readies His spear –

“Oh-ho-ho, _no_ ,” the dragon’s voice rumbles through the mountains, “we are _not_ doing this shit again.”

“You cannot run from your crimes, foul beast! You must pay for your cruelty and release that which you keep from me!”

“Yeah, yeah, heard that before. Okay – a little wager then, one which I’m so sure you’ll win.” It gestures to the poor, frightened girl in the back of the cavern, trapped for so long that she has become part of the stone itself, “I hand over the _fair maiden_ if you give me your own answer, reasonable and truthful. You get three tries. If you fail, me and her are free to leave this place and go back to where we consider home. You accept these terms?”

A contest of intellect. Hardly a challenge. The Prince has heard riddles and stories of all kinds, of all persuasions.

“I accept.”

“Cool.” The dragon ponders for a moment. Two moments. Far too long. “You win five million dollars in the Publisher’s Sweepstakes, and just as Old What’s-His-Face hands you the check, aliens show up and say they’re going to blow up the world in two days. What do you do with the money?”

That makes no sense. What strange, unfamiliar dialect does this creature use.

The Prince considers the question for a moment. He knows what money is – shining, glittering gold that mortals rely on so heavily.

“I pool the money into a pile to lure the ‘aliens’ into a trap.”

“It’s a check, dumbass. Besides, there’s not enough pennies and dimes in the world to sparkle for aliens that far up. One guess down.”

Wrong. This is His realm, everything is to His design. How is He wrong. What is a sweepstake.

No matter. He still has two more tries.

“There is no answer to this riddle. It is a trick.”

“Oh, but there are. Plenty of perfectly good answers, you just haven’t given me one. Two down.”

What.

No. Not allowed. He should burn this creature again, slay it, pierce its skin as He has a hundred thousand times before. He is better. He is better.

“Think as long as you want,” the dragon says, and He can hear the jeer hidden under that awful growl, “I’m sure it’s _very_ difficult for you.”

Not. Allowed. Forbidden. No creation of His can be stronger or smarter than He. They are always subservient. How dare she. How dare she.

The dragon grins. “What are you waiting for, oh great and powerful Prince? Surely you can make up an answer?”

Answer. Answer. Prove yourself worthy of existing. Fight. Win.

His. Own. Answer.

He cannot create.

“I destroy them with lightning. I take one back as a trophy. I kill the aliens.”

That’s what He does. He beats things down. Proves He is stronger, better than His parts. This is the truthful answer. The right answer.

The dragon stares.

“Did you forget the question?”

He echoes the dragon’s voice as she tells Him.

“What. Would you do. With the _money_.”

The money He never used. Never needed. Never understood.

The Prince of Summer Storms, the noble, courageous, savage and terrible Prince of Summer Storms, _loses_.

 

-

 

Now, that first part went off without a hitch. Heather thought up some random question off the top of her head, one that hasn’t been heard before, and the Fairy can’t guess it. It doesn’t have a set response, so a reasonable and truthful answer requires knowledge of people (which they don’t have) and creativity (second verse, same as the first). That was all fine and dandy – the Prince, true to His word, let them leave His realm free and clear.

The thing is, once they were in the Thorns, the Border Realm, No Man’s Land, _then_ they were fair game.

Calling the Wild Hunt on two escaping prisoners is a dick move, Chandler decides. Calling the Wild Hunt in general is probably the dickest of dick moves, but that’s what she and Martha have to deal with.

It feels strange, to be humanoid again. Not bad, god no – Heather knows this is the shape she’s supposed to be – but even she has to admit wings would be really useful right now. There’s no way they can run fast enough to outrun a bunch of berserk steeds and hounds baying for their blood.

There’s a trick to this. Always a trick. What is it?

“Water?” She thinks aloud, hoping Martha still has enough air in her lungs to join the conversation, “they can’t cross something. That must be it. I can’t… remember…”

Martha just stares, eyes wide as saucers, lost and afraid. A hunting horn sounds, and the infernal rumbling of hooves grows closer. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

“No, wait. I know what to do.”

Heather blinks. “Seriously?”

Martha turns around, suddenly calm, and stands directly in the middle of the rocky, moss-covered path.

“Please don’t tell me you’re suicidal again.”

No response, for the second time. The Wild Hunt thunders towards them, and Heather can practically _hear_ them laughing.

Should she stand behind Martha? No, probably a bad idea, she’s made of rock. Maybe not right behind her, then the hunt might go around her like a water’s current split by a stone. If she keeps running, then that just attracts attention she doesn’t want.

Fine. Trust Martha Dunnstock. Better than trusting her own legs. She _knows_ they will fail.

 

Heather sees them. Coming down the path.

On their massive steeds, horses and he-goats alike, with bulging eyes and murder in their hearts. The hounds, red-eared with wide, slobbering mouths, and the masters – towering figures all, in ragged robes and rusted chain, some with racks of antlers protruding from their heads. Gnarled, clawed hands grip tight to wicked spears, bows, swords, hunting horns blaring, hooves beating a frantic rhythm on the hard ground, noise overwhelming.

They all ride straight past.

Some hounds snap at her as they pass. It’s as if they are unable to stop.

They are the Hunt. They chase. If their prey doesn’t run from them…

 

“How did you know that would work?”

Martha shrugs. “I think my grandma told me that story at some point. If you stand in the middle of the road, they can’t get you. She also said that logic doesn’t apply to anything other than The Wild Hunt.”

“Well, it’s not logical. Something comes for you, you move outta the way.”

“I guess.” A pause. “Which way are we going?”

What? Oh, right. She’s supposed to be leading.

She’s Heather Chandler.

“It probably changes,” she says, “just… we follow the road. Don’t stray from the path.”

“Sounds good.”

A piece of Chandler falls back into place, like a jigsaw being put together. It feels good, to be in charge of someone again. To be in charge of herself.

She’ll find the way back. She’s sure of it.


	15. It Goes Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A multiple of three. Very important.

Heather Chandler comes back.

 

-

 

David Cox sees her at the back of the frat house.

Assigned to take out the trash the morning after a party, he spots his high-schooler girlfriend (and yes, that designation is necessary) in the alleyway, along with someone in white. They’re talking in hushed voices about, oh, he doesn’t know, My Little Ponies or something. The new outfit is a nice touch, though, even if all the scars aren’t – it’s like something out of _Conan the Barbarian_. He can dig that.

Oh, wait. She’s supposed to be missing, isn’t she? He rang her up the other week to invite her to another frat party, but some guy answered instead. Major disappointment, but he found a way to work it off.

He drops the garbage bag, and two heads snap towards him. There’s a flicker of emotion behind Heather’s eyes that David can’t name, before they go hard.

“Where have you been?” he starts, feigning concern, “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Heather grins. It doesn’t reach her eyes, almost like she’s baring her teeth. “You didn’t look hard enough, then. Fuck off. We’re not here to see you.”

Ah, as always, not so keen on him. That’s fine. It’s happened before, and he’s jumped that hurdle.

“There’s no need to talk like that, babe. C’mon. Come inside. You know I’ll take good care of you, Princess.”

The nickname does _not_ work. Heather grins, all sharp and wild, and David feels an unexpected fear settle in his chest. There’s something wrong, his instincts tell him that, but…

Come on. It’s _Heather_. For all her bravado, she’s easy once you push the right buttons. Maybe if he just –

 

David wakes up with a broken jaw and no wallet.

 

-

 

Heather Duke doesn’t see her – she hears her.

She wouldn’t think it real, if Chandler hadn’t said the line from the Robert Louis Stevenson poem – then, it’s like no time had passed at all. Duke sits at her desk, pen hovering over her English homework while she listens, white-faced and white-knuckled, as Chandler prattles on.

“David’s poor as hell, must be spending all his money on roofies. I had to get a new outfit at fucking _Goodwill_ , can you believe it?” No, Duke _can’t_ believe it. “Barely had enough for the payphone.”

“ _Where have you been?!_ ”

She can practically _hear_ Chandler’s smirk, and something else, too. “I was in hell, Heather. Where else?”

Duke doesn’t really know what to say to that.

It’s not like she would have missed Heather, not really, not after all that bullshit she put Duke through. That constant pushing, all the time, _be better, be prettier, let yourself be taken, be as good as me or I show the world how worthless you really are._ It was just that Duke had gotten so used to the pressure that she didn’t know what she would do once it lifted. But, lift it did, when Chandler and Jason Dean vanished into thin air, and Duke was left to her own devices.

“How long have I been away?”

“A month, give or take,” Duke replies, snapped back to reality.

“Thirty-three days?”

Duke scoffs. “Not like I’ve been counting.”

She has. Thirty-three days is exactly right.

“What _have_ you been doing, then?” Chandler questions, her voice eerily calm. “Keeping everyone in line?”

There is no safe answer there. If she says she did nothing, Chandler gets mad that she didn’t keep things in check. If she says she stepped up to the plate, Chandler gets mad that Duke tried to take her spot.

The truth?

Once everyone figured out that the Demon Queen had vanished, they all looked to _her_. Not because she was a Heather, but because she acted – she made the hairspray flamethrower, she cleared a path to the phones, she stopped everyone running around like headless chickens. She didn’t grasp for Chandler’s crown (though she would have if she was sure there’d be no reprisal), it was given to her, and she did the best she could with it.

So that’s what Duke told Chandler. The truth.

There’s silence on the end of the line, but no dial tone. Nothing to deafen the sound of Duke’s heart beating in her ears.

“Good.”

_Good?_

“The important thing is that you didn’t try to be me,” Chandler continues, suddenly sounding exhausted, “you did it on your own terms, right?”

There’s something about the way she said that last part. It’s not an expectation for Duke to meet, not something that she _has_ to do.

It’s hope. The sort of hope reserved for those who have nothing else.

“That’s right.”

It’s not a total lie.

“Thank you, Heather.” Holy shit. It’s happening. Chandler sounds like she means it, this is a sign of the apocalypse. She hears muted discussion on the other end of the line, before Chandler returns. “I have to see someone, but Martha still wants to talk to you. She’s cool now, so if you hang up on her you’ll be exfoliating with a cheese grater for the rest of your life, _capiche_?”

“ _What?_ ”

But no, Chandler’s gone, and the half-heard discussion is suddenly more important. Maybe she means another Martha, not the one she used to be friends with in kindergarten, not the one who listened to all of her childhood insecurities without a single complaint, not the one she abandoned to a fate worse than death for her own-

“Hello?”

Oh, nope, it _is_ that Martha.

This must be her penance for the photos. Well, it could be worse, Duke supposes.

“Hey. It’s been a while.”

 

-

 

Jack Dufour (he prefers that name) sees her in the Snappy Snack Shack. Again.

Heather’s looking decidedly worse for wear. Still dignified and arrogant, true, one would expect that from a dragon, but the scars can’t hide. Blade marks, puncture wounds, one on her shoulder that branches and curls like hoarfrost on a window, all with a faint orange glow. An inner fire.

They’re more alike than he’s comfortable with.

Those hellish eyes meet his. Jack sips his drink with a smirk on his face.

“Robbed a Goodwill, did we?”

Heather looks downright offended, gaze drifting down to Jack’s management-mandated polo shirt. “Didn’t think you’d make money legally.” She’s wrong, there – giving Jack a job is child labor, but they gave in eventually. “Where’s Veronica?”

“Still in Sherwood, if you’re worried.” _And I think you are_. “Unfortunately, the police were getting quite thorough in their search of your house, so she and I had to vacate the premises.”

He has a place of his own, a hollow in the hedge. He invited her in, but Veronica refuses to go anywhere near that space between worlds. She’s made it back to reality after however long, and she’s _staying_ there, thank you very much.

“Great. Figured that much, but it doesn’t answer my question.”

“At this time of day? I’d say she’s in class. Your Wordsmith has been complaining quite a lot about a teacher named Fleming.”

Stories of her incompetence are but a few of the many tales Veronica has told him. Other highlights include how everything her ‘landlord’ cooks is as bland as astronaut food, a Duke’s creative use of a magic card, or the Muse’s keen eye spotting odd items in the gymnasium – a tattered flag, a brass skull, and a knife.

The time Heather bought her the most beautiful pen and a diary to match, complaining that Veronica might get splinters from the old one. Or when Heather somehow managed to fuck up making spaghetti, of all things, after Veronica mentioned it was her favorite food.

How much she misses Heather. How everything that happened was her fault, no matter how many times he tries to convince her it wasn’t.

Those ones get a lot of retelling.

“She’s at Westerberg?” Heather asks.

“That appears to be the case.” Jack puts his drink on the counter and leans forward. “When you meet again, and I’m sure _you_ will see her before _I_ do, can you explain to her that she is not to blame for other people’s bad decisions?”

The righteous indignation on Heather’s face falters. She knows she hurt Veronica. Jack doesn’t know exactly how she did it this time, but Heather does, and that’s what’s important.

“I guess I have to do what you can’t. Again.”

“Wonderful.” A pause. “Well? Unless you’re buying...”

Heather growls something under her breath, spitefully shoplifting a bag of Corn Nuts on her way out.

Jack gives a wry smile.

“Go get ‘er, champ.”

 

-

 

Officer Mark McCord sees her in the interview room.

Milner won’t shut up about how _he_ was the one to find the missing rich girl. If his partner’s statement is anything to go by, it wasn’t that hard – apparently, she was storming down the sidewalk as the patrol car went by.

They didn’t accept her claim of being stuck in Hell for a month, so instead she says she doesn’t know where she was being kept. She does describe her captor in a decent amount of detail, though. Tall, silver-haired, with a sharp face and stormy grey eyes.

As it happens, there’s someone they know who fits that description. They make a few calls, and he comes into the station without incident.

McCord didn’t think it was possible for this girl’s eyes to get any colder than they were, but he’s proven wrong when they bring the man into the room.

“That’s my dad,” she says, in a tone that strikes a sour note, “he hasn’t done _anything_.”

 

McCord knows this man better than he’d like. He had the displeasure of listening to the sergeant vent after that first phone call to let him know his daughter was missing.

“Businessman,” the sergeant had said, “too high up in his ivory tower and too far up his own ass to take us seriously.”

It took them two weeks to get the guy down from New York to discuss the problems face-to-face, and the look on his face the entire time gave McCord the impression Chandler was one step away from rolling his eyes at the whole affair.

When they asked if he had any questions, his only response was to question why the police hadn’t found Heather yet.

 

If he didn’t know any better, he’d suspect Chandler of being the kidnapper – the way he looks at his daughter, it’s detached, as if he doesn’t recognize her. He talks seems almost practiced, professional rather than paternal, more like a manager telling off a problem employee than a dad scolding a child.

“What were you doing, Heather? What did you do to get yourself into this? Off with a boy? Playing a prank? Do you know how many resources this case has taken up?”

“Forgive my interruption, sir,” McCord stays stone-faced under Chandler’s glare, “she was abducted. It’s highly unlikely she had a say in the matter.”

“See, Dad? That’s how you know he’s the detective here, with _those_ problem-solving skills,” Heather adds, biting the hand that feeds her.

“A lot of my time and money got invested into finding you, Heather, then you just… show up with a new set of clothes and act like nothing’s happened. Was it planned? Is this another cry for attention?”

Anyone else might not have noticed, but McCord’s is a trained eye. He sees the briefest flash of hurt flicker across Heather’s face as she leans back in her chair.

“If I wanted attention, Dad, why would I go _off_ the radar?” She asks softly, calmly. McCord must be hearing things, because there’s a hint of a growl beneath the even tone. “I’m done asking for affection from you. I know you’re **_far_** too busy with your board meetings to give it. I have for years, now.”

It’s as if Chandler has only just remembered about the passage of time. He mirrors his daughter’s reaction, just a hint of emotion breaking the surface before it sinks back below the ocean of stoicism.

“You’re my daughter, Heather,” he murmurs, “you know I love you. I always have, always will.”

Heather replies without a hint of bitterness, without venom. No defiance, as one would expect from a teenager to a parent – she speaks a cold, hard and heavy truth.

“I don’t believe that.”

Chandler opens his mouth to defend himself, but closes it after a moment’s thought. McCord and Heather both watch as he struggles in vain for a response, looking at the metal table in front of him like it holds the answer.

Then he gives a little nod (to himself, it seems), and looks to McCord. “Are we free to go?”

“I have some paperwork I want you to sign, but both of you can go home after you’ve done that,” McCord responds. Chandler nods again, and waits for the officer to open the door before he makes his exit. Heather… doesn’t really follow. She leaves after him, but it’s not really trailing in her father’s footsteps.

McCord knows Heather’s only been gone a month, but he thinks her father lost her long before that.

 

-

 

She doesn’t know if it’s past curfew.

Heather can’t remember what time it comes into effect – she’s been out of routine for a while, to put it lightly. Besides, there are better things to do than obey the law.

Sure, her dad tried to stop her. Failed, obviously. She told him she was going to see someone important to her, and he gave her a lovely little speech about how _he’s gonna be a better dad who’ll take care of her and protect her_.

Too late.

Even as she walks, seemingly safe in her small town, there’s memories in the corner of her eyes. A flickering streetlight could be a bolt of lightning sent to burn her, the dying birdsong and chirping of insects the cackling of his sycophants and her tormentors. She knows the things she sees aren’t real, but she also knows that some of them might be.

The object of her search his right in front of her, an unassuming California bungalow. The left side, towards the back. She’d go in the front door, but there’s a real possibility the homeowner would just slam it in her face.

Now, how is Heather going to do this? Maybe a knock? Stones? Heather thinks it’ll send Veronica into shock if she just pops back up while she’s doing her homework. Maybe with a decent-sized rock –

Heather almost gets the wind knocked out of her when something knocks her onto her side.

Panic overtakes her again. Heather struggles, claws at whatever’s around her waist, screeches “Mother _fucker_!” and gets prepared to bite.

“Sorry, Heather,” her captor says (oh shit, _oh shit, Veronica_ ), “I’m not letting go. You’ll never be free again.”

Bereft of non-violent options, Heather goes limp, looking down to confirm it’s her girlfriend. Hardly needs it. Her hair’s a little longer, but she’s the same as the image Heather had in her head, the thing that guided her back.

And she’s crying.

Heather Chandler’s good at making people cry.

Heather reaches her free hand down to stroke Veronica’s hair. “Sorry. Didn’t plan to be gone so long.”

“You had a plan? That’s rich,” Veronica replies.

“Yeah, I know. I have a history of making stellar decisions.” The arms around Heather’s waist tighten their grip. “Question.”

“Go for it.”

“I don’t think I used up all my favors, did I?”

Veronica sighs. It’s bitter, the taste of hurt.

“No, no, it’s not as important as you,” Heather says quickly, “I just… get up here.”

Veronica releases her grip, shuffling up so she and Heather are on the same level. Chandler takes the opportunity to roll onto her back, gazing up at the stars.

Stars. There were never any stars in that realm. Only storm clouds.

“Okay, third favor.”

“Third favor.”

Heather swallows. “Kiss me?”

Veronica stares for a moment, disbelieving. Yeah, it’s kind of a stupid thing to ask for, but Heather’s weak. Every step she took through the hedge, moving back to her old life (or whatever was left), it was to see her again. To hell with everyone else, Heather could go on without them, but Veronica deserved to be happy. If Chandler makes her happy, makes her feel safe, then Heather’ll drag herself out of the fucking underworld to be there for her.

Heather just wants to know if she’s still that person to Veronica.

If the near-desperate lips on her own are any sign, then she is. She pulls her Wordsmith in close, making the moment last until her face and lungs are burning. When Veronica pulls back, gasping, Heather puts a hand on her chest to give her time to speak.

“I’d swear an oath never to leave you again, but that could go _really_ bad _very_ easily.” Veronica considers Heather’s statement, then nods. “How ‘bout this – I love you. I’ll always love you. I’ll stand by you if you stand by me, and we’ll take whatever the hell happens next together. Do you accept these terms?”

Veronica pauses, then rests her head on Heather’s shoulder. “I do.”

Something clicks into place, like the final piece in a cosmic jigsaw puzzle. Heather gets that light feeling in her chest again, and it might not be from magic.

“You’re staying with me tonight, though,” Veronica continues, “that’s a non-negotiable term.”

“Oh, woe. A dragon being held against her will by a princess. How terrible.”

Veronica smirks as Heather pulls her to her feet, and she doesn’t let go of her hand as they walk inside.

 

It’s hardly a grand finale. They’ve barely begun their lives.

Still, there are such things as happy endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A veritable Great Wall of Text on this fic can be found at shalebridge-cradle.tumblr.com.


End file.
